Swallowed in the Sea
by lovetowritetoo
Summary: Two years after Red John, Patrick Jane is back in the US, working together with Lisbon for the FBI. When a stalker/killer Lisbon caught during Jane's absence escapes, it doesn't take long for the murderer to go after them in search of revenge, forcing them to take drastic measures. Jane takes Lisbon to a huge part of his past, not realizing this is exactly what the killer hoped.
1. Chapter 1 Teresa Lisbon

**Swallowed in the Sea **

_Oh the streets you're walking on _

_A thousand houses long _

_Well that's where I belong_

_And you belong with me_

_Not swallowed in the sea_

_Coldplay _

Story: Two years after Red John, Patrick Jane is back in the US, working together with Lisbon and Cho for the FBI while tying up loose ends. When a stalker/killer Lisbon caught during Jane's absence escapes, it doesn't take long for the murderer to go after them in search of revenge, forcing them to take drastic measures. Jane takes Lisbon to a huge part of his past, not realizing that this is exactly what the killer was hoping for.

This story takes place during The Mentalist 2.0, referring to the season 6 Red John storyline (especially the first eight episodes leading up to Red John's death – most references are for The Great Red Dragon's bombing). In this story Lisbon, Jane and Cho have been working for the FBI for some time but there are no references to the 2.0 storylines. This is a standalone story.

Type: Crime/Angst & Hurt/Comfort/Friendship

This story consists of two major parts.

Lisbon and Jane are very good friends, in my universe they don't or will not have a relationship but are very close, like best friends would be.

Every chapter is written in either Lisbon's or Jane's POV.

**Swallowed in the Sea **

**Part One: Closure **

**Chapter 1.1: Teresa Lisbon**

I have to admit I was very surprised and curious when Jane called me late last night and asked me to take some time off. Then he added that he planned on taking time off with me _together_. To be honest, at that point I thought he would actually ask me out on a date – now, wouldn't that be a first? - but instead, he said he was going to take me away for a couple of days to get out of Austin.

I asked jokingly if he planned on abducting me to his island. It remained quiet for a few moments and I could actually hear Jane's brain work before he said, "No, I'm afraid it's not going to be that exotic. Bring some warm sweaters for the evenings and summer clothes for the day."

"Where are we going then, Jane?" I prodded.

"You'll see," he replied mysteriously. "I'll pick you up at ten. And Lisbon?"

"Yeah?"

"Lock your doors, especially your back door, even if you are on the tenth floor."

"Will do," I simply said.

He forget to add if he was going to pick me up in the morning or evening but knowing him, he would be here bright and early tomorrow morning at 10 sharp, wearing his casual suit – because he didn't seem to own a single jeans in his entire wardrobe – and those old brown shoes he had kept, even on his island, not caring one bit that I had to officially request time off and send in about a dozen or so documents to do so. The one thing I hated here was the paper work: it was far worse than it had been at the CBI. And well, about a million times worse than at my little office, where I could decide for myself what forms I would fill in when.

Of course I made myself no illusions. Jane and I would never be a couple, because neither of us wanted that. At least not that I knew of. Jane was, apart from a very tiresome colleague, someone I relied on, far more than I ever thought I would. Our bond actually went beyond a normal relationship, I was certain. We had been through so much together that it was impossible to ignore that. Even during his time on his island he had taken the risk of sending me letters, unable to forget about the predicament the Red John-case had put us all in. It were those letters that had sent the FBI on his path. To be honest, often I believe he did it on purpose, knowing that sooner or later he would have to come back to reality. And not just that: Jane wasn't the kind of person who could spend the rest of his days resting on his lazy behind on an island. His mind would get bored all too soon.

That was the reason why he now felt so guilty, knowing that the situation I was in right now was the indirect result of his flight from the US. Had he not pursued Red John, the CBI would still exist. Had the CBI still been in place, I would have been there instead of being a police chief in a small Washington hub. And if I hadn't been there in that beautiful, very small Washington town, I would never have been in contact with Dennis James Knowles.

A shiver ran down my spine as I stood to lock the doors, automatically obeying Jane. Then I walked into my small, cozy bedroom to pack up a small suitcase, pulling random clothes from my closet, at the same time texting Abbott that I would be off for a few days and if he was okay with that. It was not as if they could go on without me.

Abbott, knowing perfectly well what Jane was up to, texted back within three minutes: _Jane already talked to me. OK, take it easy. Call me if you need anything. Be careful. We're on the lookout. Will keep in touch and keep you posted on the situation._

_Thanks_, I texted back. Abbott was okay as a boss. He was direct, strict, sometimes aggressive, sometimes angry, sometimes intolerant, yet correct and friendly. He was a typical no-nonsense man, the type of men they liked at the Bureau because they didn't sell any crap. He was the exact opposite of Jane, I thought with a smile. The two couldn't have been more different. But I liked him, even if it had taken time to get used to him. The fact that he approved this strange little holiday showed that he too was very concerned about this situation. That was new to me. In the past I had been the one in charge, now I was the one being taken care of while others took the lead. I liked that. It was calming, somehow.

But perhaps I go too fast with all of this. I should tell you first what's going on.

About a year and a half ago, some three months into my new job as police chief, I had been bored to death. Going from finding murderers, frauds and pedophiles, I had become the boss in a small town where nothing ever happened. I went to the local school to give classes on law enforcement, I spoke to the local town folk about the weather and their concerns whether or not the main road would still be fixed this year. I sometimes had to interfere in an argument at the local grocery store between two elderly men about the last loaf of bread or the last can of corned beef. Yes, I kid you not. The worst that had ever happened there was the stealing of Mrs. Jones's old timer while she lay in hospital for her cancer treatment. After a very thorough investigation (that took about five minutes) I caught the thief: Her own grandson, suffering from a major hangover, lying passed out in the backseat of the car with vomit all over the leather upholstery. Mrs. Jones had been so grateful that she baked me about four hundred delicious cookies that I shared with my colleagues and about half the town. Then she knocked her grandson over the head with her walking stick, sending him to the Emergency Room of the petite local hospital where they had to sew up the gash in his forehead – one which he rightfully deserved, if you ask me.

How I ended up in that situation? Well, partially by choice – after more than ten years at the CBI and all the Red John-havoc, I felt it was time for me to turn the page and go back to finding myself. And partially because I was burned. The entire CBI was, for that matter. We had become the nation's laughing stock when it turned out that Bertram indeed had been part of the Blake Association and had abused his position as the CBI's Director to his own advantage. You would not believe the skeletons that had come pouring out of that particular closet after his death. Jane, no matter what, had done the right thing by exposing him. Gale Bertram, a man I had known and trusted for some time, had shaken my confidence in mankind when he walked into that hospital room in an attempt to murder Patrick Jane in cold blood. The trail of murders he left behind after that, had shown how cold people could be. It had shaken me to the core.

So when an old friend of a friend called me and said the former Police Chief of this little town had died of a heart attack at the age of 86 (!) and then asked if I would be interested in the position, I took it without having to think about it. Here, or so I thought mistakenly, the worst that could happen to me is that some drunken hillbilly would come at me in the local pub. I think I've never been so far off.

I loved/hated it there. I loved it because it gave me peace and quiet. I hated it because I was so extremely bored and only had to work eight hours per day, leaving me too much time to think. I had even considered taking up knitting. Yes, really. Teresa Lisbon and knitting? It was _that_ bad. I knew that my situation had been a temporary one and I was waiting for something, someone to get me out. Every morning and every evening I prayed that that someone would be Jane.

Then, one morning, I was called on my cell phone around 5 a.m. by a very frantic police officer who told me they had found the corpse of a young woman, hanging on a tree just outside of town. I could hear Rick vomit as he told me. He had never seen a body before, let alone a murder victim. The same adrenaline I got from my CBI-work had kicked in automatically. I immediately came over, staring at the blonde woman, experiencing déjà-vû. She was hanging strapped in a tree, her arms and legs spread like Jesus on a crucifix. Her throat had been slit, her clothes were gone, there were puncture wounds all over her body. It was eerie, especially in a town like this one. People who had heard it through the grapevine came over even before the coroner had arrived and prayed for her soul, unable to understand this cruelness. This was exactly what I had left behind: A gruesome murder committed by a terrifying killer.

And right there, right then, I had known – felt it – that it would not stop here. This murderer had not done this the first time.

I will spare you the gruesome details of our hunt but it took me three weeks and three more bodies to find him. He was a local man, a hunter, who had watched too many episodes of _Criminal Minds_ and had felt a desirable urge to murder woman and taste their blood. He had been smart, starting off with petty thefts and small crimes in other states before commencing with the real work. He had chosen women he had nothing in common with, beautiful women he just knew from hanging around town.

In the end it was in fact a miracle he had only been able to kill three women. I hadn't slept for three weeks, using all of my past experiences to catch him. I saw details others didn't, actually thinking like Jane now and then as I worked the case.

The night he went out to pick out his fourth victim, he had made several errors, becoming too bold, believing that no one would ever be able to stop him. That had been our fortune. When we caught him, he confessed immediately, beaming when national television picked up the story and made a celebrity of him. He was an attractive man and I knew there were sick women out there would who would send him photos and letters.

When I caught him and made him confess, he eyed me directly, constantly calling me Teresa and showing me his interest in me. I ignored him of course, remained professional and wrote down his statement, acting like I always did: I didn't care one bit for him. He couldn't handle that. A woman who didn't care about him? Who ignored him?

During his trial, I had explained into the finest details what had happened. All that time, he looked at me while I looked at the lawyers and did what I had to do to put him away forever. I ignored him again, just like I had ignored all of his requests to meet with me.

When he was convicted, he turned to me and smiled. He didn't say a single word, didn't threaten me, didn't attack me and didn't even comment or apologize. But that smile … that was probably worse than any threat he could have exclaimed. He gave me the creeps.

And then I forgot about him, because that's what you do when you do what we do. You move on and you forget about the hell these people put other people through. As an officer of the law you need to let go, you need to put the events away and move on. I had become very good at that.

Then Jane came and despite my protests and threats, I knew from day one I would leave this town behind. Jane got me that ticket into the FBI and when they scanned my past, they also found the Knowles-case and were impressed. Since that day, I didn't look back. I had been working here, in Austin, finding killers again, when the news spread that Dennis James Knowles had escaped. It was Abbott who told me. Jane didn't know anything about it. Or at least he pretended that he didn't.

When Abbott sat down with me and expressed his concern about my safety, I had thanked him for letting me know, stood up to go back to work and then found Kim Fischer standing next to me at Abbott's desk as well. She was the one who told me that Dennis had sent a letter to the FBI, telling them he would track me down and kill me. He had added my private address in the letter, as if to show that he knew all about me. There were photos of me as well. He had become a stalker, setting his eyes on me and naming me as his next victim, then confirming that he would continue to kill as long as they didn't track him down.

I had been threatened before but never like this. It frightened me. He'd had plenty of time to find out all about me during his time in prison. As an exemplary prisoner working in the library, he had bribed some of the guards for Internet access, preparing his escape into detail. There was no doubt in Fischer's and Abbott's minds that he would come after me. They made it a priority case and put him on their Most Wanted list. As long as they couldn't find him, I would be in danger and one of the FBI's rules was that I couldn't go into the field as long as this was the case.

And then they told Jane.

Who had then taken a couple of hours to think about our next moves and had then planned this little trip, asking Abbott to find Dennis James Knowles and to kill him. He would take care of me in meanwhile, he had said. Finding Knowles was not Jane's job. He wouldn't have a clue where to start, that was never part of his workload. He was very good at reading people but finding an escaped convict was the FBI's strength.

Abbott had asked what he was planning to do and he spoke to Fisher, Cho and Abbott in private, explaining his plan. Abbott, still reluctant about working with Jane, had simply nodded, approving the plan. They left in a sort of strange partnership, forged by their concern over me. I wondered how long it would take Abbott to start liking Jane, if he ever would, that is. Jane didn't care about Abbott and couldn't care less either if Abbott cared about him.

I was curious to find out what my former consultant was up to.

When I was packed, I prepared a small tote bag with make-up, bathroom necessities and perfume. Then, with a sigh, I placed my gun and badge on top of it. Because, no matter how much we might think it, people like us never just went on holiday. We left, prepared for anything.


	2. Chapter 2: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 1.2: Patrick Jane**

I arrived exactly at 10 a.m. at Lisbon's apartment building in the heart of Austin. Tapping my hand impatiently against the elevator wall, I waited until the slow lift slid open on the tenth floor. My apartment building was two blocks away, looking almost exactly like this one. That's what I hated about Austin: Everything just looked the same. I missed California.

She opened after a single knock on the door, dressed in casual jeans, T-shirt and jacket. Her tote bag and small suitcase stood next to her. She seemed a bit nervous, probably having gone through a thousand possibilities in her mind as to where I would take here. I can tell you know that she wouldn't have been able to guess it in a million years.

"Morning," I said. "Ready to go?"

"Yep. Where is that you're taking me, Jane?"

"Ah," I smiled, "that is for me to know and for you to find out." I picked up her suitcase and let her carry her tote bag. She locked her front door carefully, sliding the keys into a separate small purse that she held in her hand.

As we stepped into the waiting elevator, I spotted her watching me. I too had dressed casually, a habit I had learned on the island. Well, casual for me is a light suit, really. My things were waiting in my FBI-car, a fancy black Mercedes they paid for in full. Ah, the little perks of working for the FBI. At least that was something, I suppose.

I put her belongings in the trunk next to my suitcase. She slid in besides me. "So, are we driving or flying?"

"Flying," I said.

"Ow-kay. And where to?"

"You'll see," I replied with a smile, grasping the steering wheel relaxed. It took us about twenty minutes to get to the airport where I parked the car in the long-term parking lot, tucked away the ticket and took our bags from the trunk. She followed me as we went to the check-in.

"Two tickets reserved under the name of Jane," I told the clerk. "Los Angeles."

Surprised she stared at me. "California? Jane, what are you up to?"

For the first time I felt nerves, hoping I was doing the right thing. But I needed to do this and show her how different everything was right now. This trip, both forced and welcomed, would close a huge chapter in our lives.

"Do you trust me, Lisbon?" I asked.

"No," she replied instantly, laughing as she did.

As we checked in, she showed her ID and her gun, at which I looked without surprise. I knew she would always remain a Federal Agent, no matter where she went and what she did.

Together we walked through customs to our gate where we sat down with a view on the planes taxiing on the tarmac. Ours was being prepared and would take off for our relatively short flight in about twenty minutes.

"Jane, what is going on?" Lisbon asked. "Why are we going back to California?"

I turned to her. "Lisbon," I began, "two years ago, our lives changed forever. I never thought that it would change so drastically, to be honest. I never thought they would shut down the CBI like that. I never thought I would end up on this island, speaking horrible Spanish and pretending I was the happiest man in the world. Abbott's deal came at the right time. It _felt _right too."

"But?"

"But, there are some loose ends I need to deal with. If there's one thing I've learned over these past years is that you can run but you can't escape your memories, your past. McAllister is dead. And now it's time for me to bury parts of my past with him. Well, it's not just about me. It's about us. About what we left behind then."

"Are you talking about Angela and Charlotte?"

I smiled. "I have peace with their deaths now. What's done is done. I've had my revenge. I can sleep again, breathe again. And now I need to deal with the rest of it. That also involves you."

She opened and closed her mouth, putting two and two together, figuring out exactly what I was up to and what this trip was meant to be. "Your house," Lisbon spoke understandingly. "The Malibu house, am I right? We're going there?"

I nodded, nervous about what she would say next. This wasn't about me, but I couldn't confess to that, not yet anyhow, it was about Lisbon. But I felt that at the same time this was the perfect opportunity to make it about _us_, about closure. I knew she still had nightmares about the bombing, about McAllister's tricks. I knew she had seen a psychiatrist about that particular night. I could only image what it must have been like for her, having been dumped by me like that, making her way to the house, having the guest house explode in her face like that, finding corpses and me. That explosion had changed everything for her. That, and the fact Bertram had betrayed us all.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, saying nothing, her expression unreadable.

"Lisbon,' I began, "I haven't been back at that house in over two years. It's still mine and it's still standing there with my wife's blood written on our bedroom wall. That house is the sole reminder of my past, of who I was. I need to deal with that. It's the one last thing that I have to do before moving on forever. And I want to help you deal with that night."

Lisbon turned towards me and for one moment I thought I saw disappointment in her look, until she said, with a broad smile on her face, "I thought I'd never see the day that you would deal with your past. You've grown up, Patrick Jane."

Her reaction made me smile and I relaxed, realizing she was not kidding. She was dead serious. She touched my arm lightly and turned further towards me. "You are right," she said, knowing all too well I knew every detail of her nightmares, seeing right through her. "We both need closure. This was a very good idea."

I realized at that moment that I had never felt more comfortable being with Lisbon. She was my soul mate, my best friend, my partner. I had left her and now that we were back together, we were both doing fine.

The desk clerk announced our flight ready for boarding and we grabbed our things, showing our passports and entering the plane. As we sat down and looked at each other, she asked, "So, what is the plan?"

"I want to say goodbye to the house," I said calmly. "And then I'm putting it up for sale. I've contacted a few real estate agents to set up the practicalities. But we can stay there for as long as we want to and just enjoy the California weather too."

"And the guest house?"

"It's still there. It'll be torn down before the house is open for sale. I don't think potential buyers will be happy about a bombing," I grinned lightheartedly.

"That's good." She leaned back and waited patiently until we took off. That was the part of flying Lisbon hated the most. I always saw her tensing up then. Me? I hated everything about flying. That was the one downside about working for the Feds, countrywide now. The constant flying.

"Jane?" she said when we were in the air.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember what happened that night? I've always wondered and you never talked about it."

I knew she was referring to the bombing that occurred after I confronted my remaining five Red John-suspects, forcing them to show their shoulder to me, revealing three tattooed dots. It was the night that I discovered Gale Bertram was part of the Blake Association. The night that changed everything.

I contemplated my reply.

Parts of that night were blocked from my memories. I remembered taking the three men, McAllister, Smith and Bertram into a separate room, leaving Stiles and Haffner alone, not knowing at that time I was sealing their fate when I asked them to reveal their shoulders to me.

I remember shouting at those three men to tell me the truth. They started accusing each other. And then somehow, everything turned black. I still don't know how McAllister pulled it off. He had planted that concussion bomb in the guest house. He must have known exactly where and when it would explode, getting out of harm's way when it did. I remember Bertram, Smith and myself going down as if struck by bricks. I heard voices shout from the other room before I passed out. That concussion bomb was horrid. It felt as if my head would explode. Haffner and Stiles must have been awake when it went off, as they were still seated on that couch and remained safe since I had shut the door between the two rooms.

What happened afterwards was just a theory. Haffner's and Stiles's bodies were mutilated so much they couldn't even do an autopsy on them. My theory was that McAllister knocked them both out with my rifle. He then dragged them into the front room, along with the corpse he had in the trunk of his car. He dragged Smith, Bertram and myself into the back room, out of harm's way, knowing we wouldn't be killed if the real bomb struck.

I remember waking up from my position on the ground after the first bomb, trying to shake the confusion out of my head. I tried to get up and find my rifle. And then, within a few seconds, the second bomb went off and I could feel its heat radiate, its blast sending me back into oblivion with a sharp, hard pain. I just dropped like a log. It felt even worse than the first time.

I thought a lot about why he let me live that night. About the others, I knew. He had to make it look like he was dead, putting us off his trail. Stiles and Haffner were his main victims. Smith and Bertram, well, that's pretty obvious. He couldn't kill his companions, now could he? So why did I survive? I believe it was because he couldn't let it go. He wanted to continue playing his games. Now _that _was a big mistake as it cost him his life.

The one thing he had never thought I would do though, I did. I accused Bertram of being Red John for the entire country. And McAllister's ego couldn't handle that. It was that ego that ultimately became his demise. If he had let things lie, he could have escaped forever, starting a new life in another country under a false name. Nobody was looking for him, nobody knew he was still alive – well, except for me - and even I had just been following a hunch.

If I told Lisbon I remembered everything and what it felt like, she would be devastated. So I smiled wearily and said, "I don't remember much. The lights went out before I knew what was going on."

She eyed me skeptically but said nothing. Sometimes lies between friends are for the best.

The plane landed smoothly. We took our bags and walked towards the terminal where we waited for our two small suitcases to arrive. Then we left LAX, heading for the car rental terminal. Half an hour later we were on our way to Malibu. And despite my bravery, I felt my heart sink with every passing minute, clutching the steering wheel tight as we returned to familiar territory for the first time in over two years.


	3. Chapter 3: Teresa Lisbon

**Chapter 1.3: Teresa Lisbon**

I knew Jane well enough to know he was very nervous about returning to his former family home. For more than two years – if not more than twelve by now – it had been standing in dust, inhabited and empty, all memories fading away as time passed by.

I was quite curious what we would be seeing. Would the house even look like a house anymore? Would it be a pile of bricks with dust covering it from the inside out? Would it even be sellable? I wondered about all of this as he drove quietly, blindly taking the correct way. There was no GPS in the car but he didn't need one, knowing LA by heart.

As we took the coast road leading us straight into Malibu, we passed the point where he had dumped me that night, before heading out to meet his nemesis. I would never forget though what he had said, how he had hugged me and held me tight. That moment had been one of the most beautiful moments in my life, even if he did what he did later on, dumping me there so he could go up to the house by himself, leaving me out of the dangerous zone. I understood why he did it. He had always said that this was not my fight and that he would refuse to involve me, knowing it might cost me my life.

Oh, how things have changed since then.

He smiled briefly at me, remembering that moment too and just said, "I meant every word I said to you, Lisbon. And I am sorry for dumping you like that."

"I know," I replied.

Then he smiled. "The look on your face was priceless though."

I kicked him. "Shut up, Jane."

About twenty minutes later, we arrived at the house. Driving up the long lane, going up that hill, heading towards the private, secluded house only the rich could afford, I felt a sense of loss and sadness. What a shame to have such a beautiful, architectural building go to waste like that. But I knew how it must have felt. I wouldn't have wanted to keep on living there either. That house was the constant reminder of what his arch enemy had done to him, punishing him for mere words, for mockery.

I let Jane get out first. He stood before his front door, taking deep breaths as he held the keys in his hand, staring at his house. I knew him well enough to see the tension in his features. Even standing with his back towards me, I knew how stressed out he was right about now. Nothing would convince me that he had forgotten his wife and child. Nothing, not the sweetest revenge, could remove the sight of two mutilated bodies, being found by a husband/father.

As I left the car, I stood next to him, waiting. He turned to me with a strange sense of surprise and shock. "They're gone, Lisbon. They are really, truly gone. I am free." And he smiled the broadest smile I had ever seen him smile. He meant every single word he said. He was finally free.

At that exact point I knew it would be alright.

He stepped forward, pushed his key into the hole and walked in to the dusty front room of his old home. To our left stood a table with white sheets covering it, next to it were couches that had been modern twelve years ago, also covered in blankets and sheets. Everything here was a reminder of his past; every single object standing here had been picked by his wife. At one point he had covered everything – or someone had done that for him – trying to cover the memories. He lingered there, his fingers touching the sheets. Then he pulled them away, revealing that the dark leather couches were still in one piece, withstanding the test of time.

As he walked through the main front room, moving further into the living area and dining room, he pulled away sheets everywhere, dropping them on the ground. I was shocked to find a beautiful, open living room that actually looked cozy and modern.

Then he started with the windows, pulling up the blinds and pushing the windows open, allowing the California sun to enter the room. Immediately the house took on a completely different feel. If you would have told me tomorrow a new family would move in, I would have believed you.

Next we walked into the kitchen area, a huge modern kitchen that could be used by any family just as it was. It was white and shiny with a huge cooking island. I had never seen it. The only thing that needed replacement was the electronic devices. After all these years they would not work anymore, I was certain.

On and on we went, uncovering the entire downstairs floor. I picked up all the sheets and blankets and folded them into small heaps, placing them in one of the utility rooms. Apart from the stack of dust everywhere, you could move in immediately. All it needed was a good cleaning and that was it.

"This is a beautiful home, Jane," I said admirably. "I never realized how gorgeous it is."

"Thank you. Angela designed it," he replied, happy that I commented like this.

"She must have had quite an eye for detail. It's stunning."

He smiled. My compliments obviously did him well. He felt a pride only a proud husband could have felt. "It's such a shame, isn't it?" he then continued quietly. "Such a waste. But I couldn't live here anymore, Lisbon. To me, this house was cursed."

"I can believe that," I replied. "To be honest, I would have done the exact same thing."

He turned with a mischievous grin. "Take your revenge on the bloodiest serial killer of California?"

"Well, _that _part I would have handled different," I retorted, punching him again. "Jane, seriously, are you still making jokes?"

"That's what I do, Lisbon."

Then we stood before the steel staircase leading up. I knew this would be the hardest part. The last time he had been here, was on the night of the bombing. He had gone into his former bedroom, had lain down on the bald mattress on the ground underneath the bloody smiley made by her blood and had vowed to end it all. He had told me that after he was released from the hospital. He had sworn, or so he said, to finish it forever. He had kept his promise to his family.

The stairwell was dark and gloomy since all the doors upstairs were closed, refusing to let the sunlight in. There were no lights we could switch on as there was no power. He had apologized for that earlier, saying he didn't have the time to arrange for electricity to be switched on again.

"Do you want me to go first?" I asked troubled, seeing a ton of emotion on his face.

He shook his head. "I have to do it."

He walked upstairs, into the hallway and opened doors, one by one. The spare rooms, the adjoining bathrooms, Charlotte's room with her playroom and bathroom linked to it, the master bedroom with the huge dressing and separate private bathroom … Walking in, he refused to look at the smiley face and walked straight up to the windows, opening them for the first time in twelve years. Sunlight came in and you could see the beach from here. There was a private terrace with two old lounge chairs and a deck table on it. It was a beautiful room, magnificent even, but empty, except for the filthy mattress he had slept one when he punished himself by remember the gory details of that fateful murderous night.

He turned his back to the windows and looked at me. Then he looked aside, at _that _wall, staring at the smiley face. One single shiver ran down his spine. And that was it. It didn't do him anything anymore. That part of his life was closed off as well. I could tell how he folded open his hands and looked at their palms. His fingers actually trembled. Did he remember the way he had killed McAllister at that point?

The moment passed as quickly as it had arrived. "How are your painting skills?" he asked, smiled at me and left the room.

I took a deep breath, happy that it was over and followed him as we left the master bedroom.

Downstairs, Jane grabbed his car keys. "I'm going to pick up some groceries," he said. "Will you be okay on your own for a while?"

"Sure," I replied, eager to explore the house further.

"Okay. The nearest supermarket is a five minute drive. Why don't you go out on the beach? It's private, well, except of course for our sparse neighbors but they won't bother you. Everyone keeps to his own around here."

"That sounds great. Don't worry about me, Jane. I'm a big girl."

"Take your gun with you."

I pulled a face. "Do you think that it'll fit into my shorts?"

He snorted. "Somehow I don't see you with shorts, Lisbon."

"You'd be surprised."

After he left, I changed into lighter clothes – no shorts, he was right about that – closed all the windows, locked the door and walked around the back towards the path going to the beach. I stopped at the guest house, standing before its ruins and staring at it. The last time I'd been here, we had been picking up bodies here and there.

I couldn't move at that moment, frozen to my very core. That house, this place, was my main reminder to what had happened to us all two years ago. I shivered, recalling every single second of it, from the moment Jane dumped me at the ocean side until I found him again, believing he was dead.

I recalled stealing that car, driving like crazy towards the house, knowing in my gut I would be too late. It was like one of those dreams where you know you're going to be too late and can't do anything about it, you know?

I recall running up to main house, realizing Jane and his five suspects weren't there, rushing towards the guest house, seeing the lights on inside, going towards it and praying Jane hadn't gotten himself killed yet, then watching it explode and falling backwards, blown away by the blast. Picking myself up, staring confused at the arriving police and paramedics. Demanding a flash light, going in by myself, seeing the shattered debris and mutilated body parts, feeling my fears grow as I couldn't find Jane, hoping and praying that the human parts I had found weren't his.

And then I saw Smith, the tattoo on his arm, reliving the way he tried to shoot me, seeing Bertram crawling and then Jane lying on the ground next to him, deadly still. I remember being so scared when Jane wouldn't move. I thought for sure he was dead. He was so far gone the doctors said it was a miracle he hadn't slipped into a coma.

I stayed with him as the paramedics came in to help us. I grasped his hand as they turned him around gently, prodding and poking him, setting up an IV, giving him oxygen, lifting and strapping him onto a gurney, driving – _speeding_ – him to the nearest hospital. I was in the back of that ambulance and heard them discuss his condition.

I stayed with him in the ER until they ordered me out to clean him up and to examine him, feeling a major relief when they said there were no major injuries and that we just had to wait until he woke up. That took forever, or so it seemed. He was shaking, even in his unconsciousness; he would stir, groan and move so many times that I was certain he were reliving it all. It tore me apart, watching him like that, unable to do anything. If it weren't for Cho, I would have gone insane for sure.

And then Bertram came. I could still feel the chills run down my spine as I remembered him. He was so cold, so demanding. There was something off about him and at that exact moment I couldn't place my finger on it or I would have arrested him. But the way he spoke to me, ordering me out of that cubicle so he could be alone with Jane; well it gave me the cold shivers. He would have killed Jane in cold blood and we would never have known that he too was part of the Blake Association. Nobody would have believed it.

I had never told anyone about my feelings towards that night, besides from my shrink, that is. I had been sent to a psychiatrist on request of my boss before. Well, that was not exactly a success as my shrink turned out to be a murderer. This time however, I had chosen someone myself, a woman whom I had trusted from the start. At first I hadn't wanted to talk to anyone, too busy picking up the broken pieces and ignoring the fact I had horrible nightmares of finding Jane's mutilated, decapitated body over and over again. But once I moved to Washington and the nightmares continued, I knew I needed help. She was tiny, just like I am for that matter, had very open, beautiful eyes and a broad mind. She didn't prod, allowed me to speak on my own terms and listened so intently that she didn't even need my file during our next encounters. She knew every detail by heart. And she was discrete. Nobody even knew I went to see her.

When Dennis James Knowles came into the picture, she was concerned and met with me three times per week, not even charging for it. We were talking as if we were friends. She kept me sane throughout it all. She was the first one I had told about Jane's return. She was the one who told me to take the FBI's offer. "You are way too good to be spending the rest of your life here, Teresa," she had said. "You have to go back into the field. Imagine all the lives you could save. You have to do it."

I called her three times a week now – or she called me – and we chatted. She was the only person I truly missed living in Austin.

If she were here now, she would say that I had to face my demons. And so I did.

I moved forward and pushed the creaking door open, walking into the mangled rooms. Someone had boarded up the windows. I tore at them, allowing sunlight to enter. Of course all the body parts were gone, as well as the bullet shells and whatever reminder there was of that bombing and shooting, leaving nothing but grease and dust all over this once-beautiful small house. There was the table I had hidden behind when Smith tried to shoot me, there was the exact spot where I had found Jane. I walked through my memories while I walked through that room.

It hardly looked the same now though. All the ghosts had left the building. Jane was right: This place needed to be tore down completely. It was a cursed place.

I turned and shut the door behind me, taking deep breaths as I walked over to the path leading towards a wooden staircase heading down towards the almost empty beach. Here and there I saw people walk, some with dogs and some roaming about as couples. There were no children.

On the sand I removed my shoes and held them as I started my walk, able to forget the past and move onto the present.


	4. Chapter 4: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 1.4: Patrick Jane **

As I returned to the mansion with a car filled with groceries, I found all the doors locked. Using the spare key I had taken with me, I opened the front door, left the brown paper bags in the kitchen and headed out to the back, knowing where I would find Lisbon.

I stopped at the burned out guest house and then moved past it. Swiftly I walked to the staircase leading down to the beach and saw her familiar stature walking, some distance from me. I removed my shoes, dropped them at the staircase and walked with large footsteps towards her. Some of my former neighbors looked at me and waved. There weren't that many that I still knew. Most of my oldest friends – during the time I still had a social life or something resembling it – had moved away.

The rich and famous had enough money and opportunity to buy and sell property like others would buy loafs of bread so the transfer of families moving in and out of these houses lay very high. I also knew that my house had been called a haunted house. Not because the ghosts of Angela and Charlotte lingering about, but because of its history. This house was infected by Red John and I had to take some actions to remove that image forever.

I had bought paint.

"Lisbon!" I called out when she was close enough to hear. She turned, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder. She pulled her hair back and waved, turning towards me and walking back to the house.

"Hey," she said, "I thought you would be at least another hour."

"Nope, like I said: the shops are very close. How are you?"

"Fine," she smiled, walking back with me.

Together we crossed the short distance back towards the house. With the evening sun approaching, this area was at its best. Lisbon walked by the sea line and allowed the water to wash over her feet, visibly enjoying every step.

"This place is amazing," she said. "I never realized this before, Jane, what you have given up when you moved to Sacramento."

"It used to be amazing," I agreed. "Charlotte loved playing by the water with her friends. Angela used to watch her from the deck, always concerned that she would drown." Then he became serious. "Angela was always very worried over Charlotte, not allowing her much freedom."

"How come?"

"When we bought this property, there used to be another house that we tore down completely to build our this place. Apparently there was a woman who drowned here and her husband couldn't cope with that and decided to sell immediately, even selling his property at a loss."

"What happened to her?"

"Nobody knows. Rumor went he was cheating on her and she killed herself but others think she just went into the sea too far, couldn't make it back and drowned. There isn't anything romantic in that, so the suicide stories started to fester, allowing people to believe her spirit was still roaming here. Of course the fact that I, as a paranormal expert moved in here, only fed those rumors. They believed I could see her, which of course, I couldn't. Then, after the murders, people started to say once more that the house was haunted and that it was no coincidence that two women died here in such gruesome ways."

I held my eyes to the ground, unable to look at Lisbon at this point. "Of course the truth was far less romantic. They died because I fucked up. Nothing more, nothing less."

Lisbon didn't say anything, knowing that my newly found freedom and strange sort of happiness would never change the fact that I had been an arrogant bastard, a fool, challenging the most notorious serial killer California had ever had.

I turned to her at last. "Do you believe in curses, Lisbon?"

"No," she said. "Not in curses, not in ghosts and not in paranormal activity of any kind. I only believe in what I see."

"And what do you see now when you looked at me?"

"A changed man, a new life."

I smiled. "A man who is up to his old tricks, right?"

"Well, you need to work on your communication skills a bit more and stop bugging Abbott."

"I can't help it, he broke my favorite teacup."

Lisbon laughed. "That was an accident. And he only did what he was ordered to do. Bertram's betrayal was not his fault."

"I like bugging Abbott. And Fisher. Especially Fischer, to be honest. She's so easy to pester."

"I like her, she means well."

"I know," I admitted. "She's not that bad. I guess I'll grow on them somehow. Perhaps one day they'll figure out that I am who I am and stop trying to change me into someone I'm not."

"Not a chance," Lisbon smiled.

As we entered the house, I saw Lisbon's eyes widen at the content of the brown bags. There were enough supplies to last us a week. "How long do you plan to keep us here?" she asked bewildered.

I shrugged. "Better be safe than sorry. Sorry I can't offer you a hot meal though, we can't cook."

"That's alright. As long as it's not frozen food, I have sensitive teeth."

I grinned. "Lisbon, I find out more about you every day."

Since the fridge didn't work either, we stored everything in the cupboards. I had chosen dried meats and fish and supplies that wouldn't wither away. There was no electricity so we couldn't watch television or listen to the radio, but she didn't seem to mind. The fact that we couldn't charge our phones in the house was troublesome but I told her we would go into town tomorrow and find a diner to recharge. I did miss my tea though.

Lisbon found plates and glasses that she rinsed and dried before use, using the towels and soap I had bought. Then we sat down and ate quietly.

Later, I showed her the library where I had a huge stack of collectibles. Once, when I still had the interest, I had been an avid collector of first and second editions. I bought them because I thought they looked pretty cool in my library, not to read them. I only started reading at the psychiatric hospital because there was nothing else to do there. My love for books grew very late on me and now I found I enjoyed the read, not the collection.

We both took a couple of books with us and found a comfortable seat on the couches. I lit a number of candles, making the room almost as bright as it would have been had we had electricity. She didn't complain about the lack of power at all. The next two hours, all you could hear the rustling of turned pages. I often glanced at Lisbon and realized she had never before seemed so relax. I liked watching her. Then she looked up, spotted me looking at her, closed her book and said, with a smile, "What?"

"Your face changes every time you read a passage," I told her. "I can tell exactly what you are reading by the way you look into that book."

"Oh, I'm that translucent, am I?"

"Yep. No pun intended, but you are an open book."

"Funny, Jane." She stretched, closed her book and got up to fill a glass of orange juice. "So, tell me what we are going to do tomorrow."

"Well," I said. "Tomorrow morning, I'm going to paint the bedroom."

She held her breath, knowing immediately what I meant. "Good," she said. "I'll help."

"If you want, you can rest on the deck. You don't have to help, Lisbon."

"I want to."

"Tomorrow afternoon the real estate agents are coming to take a look. So I'd probably have to clean up some of the dust and make sure that everything's cleaner than it is now. And around 3 a building constructor is coming in to take a look at the guest house to tear it down."

"You're a busy man," Lisbon said approvingly.

"And then I thought we could grab a bit to eat for dinner in town, at the same time recharging the phones. What are you up for?"

She shrugged. "Anything. You know I'm easy."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Not like that, Jane," she poked me. Then she yawned. "By the way, have you thought about where we are going to sleep?"

"You'll take the guest bedroom. I've got some new sheets with me."

"And you?"

"I'm going to sleep in Charlotte's bed."

She recalled the beautiful princess bed … and its size. I could tell on her face. "Jane, your legs are too long. I'll sleep in her bed, you take the other bedroom."

I hesitated, then I nodded. "That might be a good idea."

As we walked upstairs with the clean sheets, Jane stepped into Charlotte's room. The pink princess coloring on her bed had faded but it was very obvious that she had slept here and had been happy here. Without hesitating I pulled off the old sheets and replaced them with the news ones. I saw Lisbon looking around, taking in the room's decoration. Angela had been so happy to be able to buy our daughter whatever she wanted. I could still see them dressing up this room.

When I was done, I said, "Lisbon, just so you know –" I stopped, an unexpected lump in my throat preventing me from further speech.

She placed her hand on my arm and shook me out of my grief, noticing the tears in my eyes that I frantically rubbed away. "What is it, Jane?"

"She didn't die in this bed, Teresa," I continued when I could softly. "Just so you know. He picked her up and brought her into our bedroom, wanting Angela to see her die. There was no blood spill in this room."

"I know," she replied gently. Then she reached out for me and grabbed me tight, hugging me so close to her I could feel her heartbeat. At that moment I felt once more how she had become my lifeline. Oh, how I had missed her on the island. That had been my one regret: Leaving her.

I clung onto her like that for a few seconds while she gently stroked my back. We were back in that sunset, embracing each other, and this time she was the one doing the comforting.

Finally I let go and smiled wearily. "Thanks."

She just nodded, picked up the other new bed sheets and walked into the guest bedroom, ripping off the old sheets and replacing them with the new ones. Then we said our goodnights and she closed the door behind her, holding the burning candle I gave her.

I sunk down on the guest bed and realized I wasn't over the past yet. Not by a long shot. And with a shock I realized that I might never be.


	5. Chapter 5: Teresa Lisbon

Thank you very, very much for your kind words, both through reviews, private chats and of course by following this story.

When I started writing it, the idea just took off on its own, the first part focusing mostly on the friendship between Lisbon and Jane, the second part, well ... you'll see. I hope you'll continue reading and reviewing, let me know what you think!

Big hugs and (hope you'll) enjoy!

**Chapter 1.5: Teresa Lisbon**

Whenever I'm in a new environment, I can never sleep properly. That's just it with me. I try to find a good position to lie down in, try to go to that place where your mind fades away and then find out hours later that nothing works. So I usually sit up straight in bed and flip through channels. Only, here there was nothing to flip through.

The shutters were still open, clattering softly against the outer walls, a gentle breeze entered the room and I could hear the waves from afar.

Finally I pushed back the blankets in my sweaty oversized T-shirt and walked in the dark, guided by the moonlight, to the windows where I stared out over the ocean, seeing the water perfectly from this position.

My mind went everywhere, from Dennis James Knowles to Jane's wife, from being in this eerie, yet stunning house, to wishing to go back to Austin. And yet I didn't really support that wish. I was calm here, even in this situation. Jane was right: We both needed closure and this was the right time to do it. Otherwise the shadows of the past would linger over us forever.

I gave up after long hours of trying to putting my mind at ease, lit the candle and left the room. I stood in the dark hallway, confused to go left or right, only to see light coming out from under the master bedroom door. Confused I stared at it, recognizing the flicker of candles, several of them.

So I walked over there barefoot, gently opened the door and saw Jane standing before the wall, surrounded by three open cans of paint and at least twenty candles. He was painting the wall, starting from left to right, deliberately leaving the smiley face to last. He had shoved the old mattress aside and had placed plastic covers over the wooden floor. He hummed as he painted.

I watched him silently, knowing that he knew I was there. Finally he looked over his shoulder. "Want to help?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I replied, stepping forward and grabbing the second paint brush, dipping it into the paint and starting from the right. He had chosen neutral beige to cover the walls, nothing fancy, nothing exciting yet beautiful. I couldn't wait to see what this room would look like in the morning.

As we both made it to the smiley face, he looked at me and I looked at him. "You do it," I said, backing away.

He just nodded and then he started to cry, his shoulders shaking as he dipped his brush into the paint and rubbed the new paint over his wife's blood. With every single brush stroke, he cried. And I realized, as I stood back watching him that this was the most beautiful moment I had ever experienced in my entire life.

When all the traces were gone, he threw his brush down, onto the plastic, sunk down on the floor and shed his last tears.

Then he stood and said, "I need tea. Care to join me?"

Five minutes, a T-shirt, jacket, pair of pants and a pair of shoes later, we were in the rental car, heading out to the nearest 24-hour diner, where he ordered a coffee, a cup of tea and two bagels. We sat there for two hours, not speaking a single word. It was a wonderful night, strange night. Finally, before we left, I placed my hand on his and said, "You did well, Jane."

He smiled then, looking more tired than he had ever done in his life, yet more content than I had ever seen him before. "Closure, Lisbon."

In the morning – well, that's say it was probably around noon by then – I woke from my stupor by the sharp ringing of a doorbell. I heard Jane curse from the guest bedroom, "They're early!" Then he rushed downstairs to find the contractor standing there.

I didn't go outside with him this time, watching from the kitchen as he spoke with gestures to the contractor, explaining to him what needed to be done. Less than ten minutes later, they shook hands. Jane returned with a big smile on his face, relieved that this was also decided upon.

"He's coming back in two days to do the job. By the end of the week the ruins will be completely gone. He's going to rebuild it next week but we don't have to be here for that."

"Good," I said, handing him a bottle of water.

We sat down, had fruit for breakfast/lunch and then went about cleaning up this place. I had opened all the doors and windows, allowing fresh air to enter from all sides. The wind was getting stronger though and you could tell a storm was on the way. It would probably hit us in the middle of the night.

During a break Jane stood on the deck. "It's going to be a stormy night."

"It's a sturdy house," I said. "I'm not worried."

He turned to me with a broad smile. "Thank you, Lisbon. Thank you for being here, for understanding this – for, well you know?"

I raised my hands. "Don't say another word. And you're welcome."

Then we returned to our work and I released all stress I didn't know I had in me during the scrubbing and cleaning of the floors.

When the real estate agents came, three of them, I walked outside. This was none of my business and I wanted to keep out. I knew Jane well enough to know he would be playing games with them, convincing all of them they were the right party, only to have the one with the best benefits get the job. They would fight over a house like this, I realized, then feeling a pang of pain in Jane's place, knowing he would be hurting, no matter what they said.

An hour or so later, he came to find me on the deck and sat down on one of the old lounge chairs with a sigh. "Well, that was that," he said. "The vultures can do their jobs. It's done. They'll sell it within two weeks. I kept the price low."

He laid back, crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes and fell asleep, just like that.

I picked up my book and continued reading, until the wind became stronger and it wasn't so comfortable out there anymore.

Later that night, Jane kept his promise and took me to a fantastic little exclusive fish restaurant in Malibu. There weren't any prices on the menu and he told me to get whatever I wanted. I insisted on paying for my own meal but he brushed that away and wouldn't hear from it. Always the gentleman, I thought with a smile, choosing baby lobsters for starters and King Crab as main course.

It was absolutely delicious, better than anything I had eaten in a long time. He picked a selected bottle of white wine and I swore we were both getting tipsy as the contents of it seemed to vanish like water. After a small but wonderful dessert, coffee and tea, he left a generous tip and escorted me outside. Everyone who saw us there would have sworn we were a couple, but there were no kisses or attempts to take this up to the next level. We were best friends, enjoying each other's company and chatting over just about anything but work and the house. With our cell phones charged, we were ready to return to the candle-light lit mansion.

As we drove back to the house, Jane seemed concerned, often looking outside and turning up the radio volume. "What is it?" I asked.

"I don't like the weather," he said. "It looks like it's going to be a rough night, worse than I thought it would be."

The radio station predicted the exact same thing, warning people to stay indoors and shut all windows, doors and shutters. They called it a tropical storm, one that came in stronger than expected. Especially the beach areas needed to be careful.

"When it's rough weather out, it's rougher by the sea side, Lisbon," he explained to me. "The house was built storm proof but I should close all the shutters when we get back or the windows might not hold. That won't take long."

Immediately sobered up, I nodded. "Have you ever been in trouble before with weather like this?"

"Just a few times," he said without further explanation. "Don't worry, like you said: It's a sturdy house."

When we arrived back home, I knew immediately what he meant. Where the wind was strong at the restaurant downtown, here it tore at our clothes and brushed through the palm trees, playing with their branches and leaves as if they were made of paper. We could hear clapping sounds and an eerie ghostly sound that seemed to go through the house. It was the wind searching its way through creaks and glass.

"The storm is approaching fast," Jane said. "I don't like the look of it. Go inside and light some candles. I'm going to go around the house and close it off."

"Can I help?" I asked, doing useless attempts to keep my hair together.

He smiled. "You'd be blown away by the storm. Nah, it's fine."

I watched him leave through the back door, making his way around the house, closing all the shutters and thus also shutting us in. Inside, I lit about a dozen or so candles and placed them in the kitchen and living room. A hard clapping sound startled me and I looked to my right, seeing the large, strong shutter of one of the French windows leading to the deck smacking hard against it, smashing the glass at the same time. Fortunately the glass only cracked. Nothing shattered.

Carefully, by pulling hard, I opened one of the other windows and stepped onto the deck. The guest house stared eerily back at me from a distance.

"Jane?" I yelled loudly, unable to see him. "Jane, where are you?"

I couldn't hear his reply but thought I heard him yell back from the other side of the house. With all my might I pulled at the shutter, forcing it back against the window and using its four bolts to fix it tightly. It wouldn't escape now, I thought satisfied as I closed the other one now covering the broken window.

Then I walked over the deck towards the side of the house where Jane was struggling against the wind. The storm was the hardest here, pulling at his clothes. Even a strong man like he was having difficulty remaining standing. The winds were free to roam and toy with us, as there was hardly any protection against it.

"Lisbon, go back," he yelled at me as he closed the third of six shutters, pushing hard against it, holding it like that to bolt it.

I ignored him and helped him with the bolts while he pushed it against the glass.

We moved on to the fourth one, managing together to lock it. The fifth one followed quickly. As he pulled on the sixth one, he cursed under his breath. I saw that the bolts were broken, probably from an earlier storm. Jane had taken his precautions by taking rope with him. He knelt down, picked up the thick rope and used the broken bolts to entangle it with the shutter. They were dangling on the strong wood. He pulled at them, testing out their strength and nodded satisfied.

"Stand back for a second," he shouted over the wind and I did while he went to work. It was pretty obvious to me he had done this plenty of times before. It made me smile, seeing a whole new side of Patrick Jane.

He knelt down to repeat this over all four bolts, standing up and pulling the rope with him. Suddenly the lowest two bolts gave away, dropping out of their hinges like cardboard, smashing the shutter directly into his chest and left shoulder before smacking back into the window.

Jane gasped, falling backwards as he clutched his upper torso, lying breathlessly on the ground as the world turned dark for a couple of seconds. I gasped too, shouting his name as I pulled tight on the rope and prevented the shutter from going back at us a second time. I entangled it about ten times with the other shutter, then winding the rope around a huge empty garden pot and knelt by Jane's side.

Jane touched his left shoulder and winced while he did. I was no doctor but didn't need to be one to see that he was in trouble. I was pretty sure his collar bone was broken. He lay powerless on the ground, gasping for air, closing his eyes as he tried to push out the pain.

When he finally looked at me again, I noticed his sluggish movements. This must hurt like hell. He turned to his right side, his left arm and hand held tight against his chest and shoulder. He was panting. He was going into shock.

"Jane," I said, my hands protectively on his torso. "Get up. We have to get you inside. Jane, come on, get up."

Somehow he did what I told him to do. With my help we managed to get him up in a sitting position and then I moved to his right side and pulled him up. He cried out every time he moved. Thick drops of rain were falling from the skies, covering both of us. In a few moments we would both be dripping wet.

"Jane, come on," I said in despair.

He looked at me and I saw his confusion. Then we were up and I pulled him with me as we made our way back to the deck, through the open window I had barricaded.

Inside, we both stumbled to the ground. I shut the window behind me before returning to him. He lay gasping on the ground, unable to move another inch, still holding onto his upper left side. I picked up my charged cell phone and dialed 911. Only to listen to a busy tone, over and over again.

God, how I hated storms.


	6. Chapter 6: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 1.6: Patrick Jane **

Through a fog of blinding pain I could hear Lisbon's voice, over and over again. She was talking the entire time, trying to get my attention, trying to get me to focus on her. I lay on the ground, unable to even see her in the semi-dark, with spots of white and black dancing before my eyes.

Finally she shook me hard, sending me back into the painful present. Our eyes connected. She sighed in relief. "Good," she exhaled. "Now listen to me. You've been hurt, okay? I think you broke your collar bone. I have to take a look. Do you have any other pain elsewhere? Your chest? Can you breathe properly?"

It took me about thirty seconds or so to comprehend what she was saying. It sounded like gibberish at first. Then I shook my head. The pain definitely came from my shoulder, rushing through my arm, hand and the upper left side of my body.

Lisbon left me lying on the ground and rushed to the kitchen, rummaging through my supplies and coming back with a sharp knife I had bought two days ago. I eyed her suspiciously.

"Can you sit up?"

I nodded.

"Okay." Carefully she helped me sit upright. Then she pulled at my jacket, pulling at the right sleeve of it and getting it off that side until it dangled over my back. "This might hurt, Jane," she warned, slowly helping me to lower my hand and arm so we could slide the jacket off me. My entire left side felt like it was on fire. I gritted my teeth and allowed her to slide it off, fighting against the nausea these movements caused.

She made a pile of the jacket and laid it down on the floor, using it as a pillow to rest my head on. Then she helped me to lie down again, kneeling next to me while her hands started to unbutton the shirt. I was wearing a very nice, white shirt. She knew she could not get that off me without sending me into oblivion.

"Sorry about this," she said, picked up the knife and tore into the fabric, cutting at the left sleeve, leaving my shoulder bare.

"I liked that shirt," I muttered, attempting to look down and see the damage to my shoulder. Oh brother … the collar bone was definitely broken, a piece of bone pushing against my muscles, flesh and skin. Further movement would pierce it through the skin.

She lifted my right hand and brought it back up to support the shoulder. "Keep your hand like that; it will help against the pain."

"Okay." She was right. In this position, lying the way that I did, it wasn't so bad. I could think again through the pain.

"Okay," Lisbon said with a fake bright smile, sitting back to stare at my injury. "That's that. Now, you're not going to like this but I've tried to dial 911 about six times now and can't get through."

"It's the storm. Happens all the time."

"Well, they should do something about that," Lisbon muttered angrily. "So basically, your shoulder needs surgery and I need to get you in one piece to the hospital. Let me think how we are going to fix that."

She stood up, her entire small body rigid and tense as she placed one hand against her forehead and tried to sort out her thoughts. "You stay here," she said, leaving me alone on the wooden floor as she rushed up the stairs. I could her rummage through our things.

"Okay," I muttered, adding sarcastically, "I'll stay right here. Could you bring me some clothes?"

She returned with just about everything she had found in our bathroom cupboards, old stuff that had been lying about for years, yet coming in very useful at this moment. She had found bandages and tape and painkillers. Then she had also taken off the sheet on Charlotte's bed.

"Okay," she said, sitting down out of breath. "Tommy used to play soccer and broke bones all the time. He sucked at sports. He broke his collar bone too. I remember my mother elevating his shoulder before taking him to the hospital."

She started cutting into the sheet, measuring me while I lay on the ground. In the darkness it was a strange sight to see her at work. Then she helped me to sit upright again. "Do you want something for the pain?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Just do it."

She pushed the front of the sheet underneath my elevated elbow, went around my back and pulled it around me, going back to the front and then tying the ends together. Then she went over my left shoulder, pulling the sheet again in place – which hurt like hell! – And tied everything together with loose bandages and tape.

It was a perfect sling, supporting my arm and elbow, lifting some of the pain off of me. She then pulled my torn up shirt back over me.

"Okay," she said, grabbing her phone, again trying to dial 911, again receiving the same busy tone. "That was step one. Step two is to get you to a hospital. I'm going to try and get help, okay? I'll head for your neighbor's homes and see if they can call an ambulance."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No use. It was dark. The power is off all over town."

"Damn it," she muttered. "Then I'll drive you. How far is it to the nearest hospital?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Can you navigate?"

I nodded.

"Good, let's go."

She picked up the car and house keys, swung the jacket carefully over my shoulders and helped me up. I swayed on my legs but actually didn't feel so bad. I was definitely in shock. The door opened with a bang as the storm hit us full in the face. She pulled it shut and supported me as we walked down the small slide towards the car. The palm trees waved dangerously close to us but she ignored it, unlocking the car.

Gently she helped me into the front seat. I couldn't get my seat belt on as it wouldn't fit over the sling and my swollen shoulder without hurting me. "Leave it," I said impatiently.

She stepped in, buckled in, adjusted the car seat to her height and backed swiftly out of the driveway, onto an empty lane with nothing but darkness. I was right: The power had gone off all over Malibu. There were no street lights, no lit houses and no telephones. Everything had gone dead. We were in a ghost town.

I directed her away from the house, telling her where to go: Left, right, left, all the way through, right, left – I spoke automatically and from memory, remember the last time I had been to that hospital. Ironically enough it was the night that my family was murdered. The police had brought me there, following the ambulances that had taken their bodies to the hospital morgue for autopsy. I remembered sitting in the front of that vehicle, not losing sight of the ambulance, knowing that my family was in there and could not be saved. By the time they were prepared for transport, after the coroner had done the preliminary examination of them, they had been rigid and cold. I hadn't touched them again.

Lisbon would look aside all the time as we made our way through the dark. With the storm in full force and it being the middle of the night by now, we were practically alone out there. It was the strangest sensation.

"You okay?" she asked frequently as I leaned my head back and focused on getting us there.

She touched my forehead while driving. "Your skin feels cold and sweaty. You're in shock."

I nodded, feeling the pain return like a slow attacker. "It's wearing off."

"How is the pain?"

"Disgusting."

She laughed, despite our situation. "We're almost there. Well, I hope so anyhow."

"Turn right at the next Junction. Then right at the next turn and we're there."

Lisbon looked before her, sighing in relief when she noticed we were finally coming back into busier territory. And here, the lights were on and the storm was far less. Finally she felt safe again. She turned to the right, glancing briefly at me at the same time. "You're doing great, Jane."

I smiled back. "Thanks, Teresa." And then, as she turned to the right, out of nowhere a minivan slammed into us, driving on the wrong lane. "Lisbon!" I shouted, before hearing the screeching, nauseating sound of metal scraping against metal. The impact was so strong that it forced both cars to the side of the road.

The airbags exploded in our faces. I slid forward with no seatbelt holding me back. It was our fortune that Lisbon had been driving so slowly, preparing to take the turn. Otherwise I would have been thrown out of the vehicle. I grunted as the airbag and my broken collar bone made impact. Dazed, as the cars came to a halt, I turned to Lisbon.

"Lisbon. Lisbon!" My shouting brought her out of her stupor. She opened her eyes, her hands touching her head. She was fine, I thought relieved.

"What…?" she asked. "What happened?"

Then she looked to her left and saw the minivan 'parked' against our car. She pushed against her door, unable to get it to budge. The steel held us trapped. She looked at me. "Jane, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I just muttered, not wanting to say that it hurt like hell. "Can you move, Teresa?"

"I think so."

"Are you hurt?"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm fine. The other driver seems to be unconscious though."

We could see the man leaning over his steering wheel, his airbag blown up and now slowly deflating, just like ours.

Other cars pulled over, people rushed towards us. A man pulled open my door, relieved that the two of us were alert and talking.

"Thank god," I said, smiling relieved at our rescuers. "Can you get us out?"

"Jane, you're staying put until an ambulance gets here," Lisbon said. "I don't want to risk further damage."

I smiled wearily. "I'm fine, Lisbon. The hospital is just two blocks away. We can walk the last part. They can get me out first, then you."

"Like hell we can." Lisbon looked at our rescuers. "Jane, you are not moving one inch until you're checked out. Can anyone of you reach 911?"

"Yeah, sure," a man said. "I just called them. They're on their way."

"Good."

Someone looking into the other car said, "Hey, this guy isn't breathing. I think he's dead."

Someone else ran over as well. "Damn it, he was fine just a moment ago."

Lisbon stretched her neck to see what was going on. "Does anyone of you know CPR?" she shouted, almost deafening me. The bystanders all looked helpless at each other, shrugging. "Damn it," she muttered. "Figures."

As I watched her, she unbuckled herself, clicked her driver's seat backwards and crawled over it, pushing her slim form between our two seats so she could crawl into the back. "What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Save that guy's ass of course," she retorted, grunting and groaning as she made her way to the back and opened the passenger door behind me.

"Go, Lisbon, go!" I grinned, feeling a strange sort of pride when I watched her go all heroics. "I'll just wait right here," I called out, seeing the bystanders eyeing me strangely as a smile played on my face.

Lisbon sprung into action like the fantastic agent that she was. She instructed two men to lift the driver from his seat and place him onto the ground. Then she ordered one of them to give mouth to mouth - something the man obviously didn't like but did anyhow while she ordered him around. She performed CPR in a steady pace. As the ambulances approached us, the driver coughed and opened his eyes.

"He stinks of alcohol," someone said.

"No kidding," I muttered, closing my eyes as I waited patiently for the paramedics, listening to the buzzing sounds of people talking whilest I hummed a song to keep my mind off the constant pain. As Lisbon wiped her sweaty forehead and returned to our car, I looked at her. "That a girl."

"Shut up, Jane," she just smiled, relieved that help was finally here.


	7. Chapter 7: Teresa Lisbon

Repeating myself but thank you, thank you for the fantastic compliments about this story. This chapter is a special one, as it ends part 1 of this story. Part 2, well, ... I am curious what you will say about that. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 1.7: Teresa Lisbon **

It took us less than twenty minutes to get to the hospital at that point. When the ambulance and police arrived, several people worked together to get Jane in one piece - well, sort of - out of the car. He was protesting all the time, claiming he could walk perfectly on his own and being the patient from hell he always was. I kind of had it figured out by now that he used his antics as a cover to hide his fears. He always did that when he - or someone else - was hurt. It was a strange sort of embarrasment combined with the absence of independence he so craved.

I wasn't harmed, except for some soreness and a splitting headache, caused by distress mostly and ordered our helpers around after flashing my FBI-badge, telling them about Jane's broken collar bone and the blown-up airbag. He closed his eyes when they helped him and I heard him hum something, realizing he did that to avoid responding to the pain. It was a nice sound, strangely enough. He had a warm voice.

He was lifted onto a gurney, strapped in tightly and then wheeled into the ambulance. Considering the circumstances he was doing great, actually complaining about the bumpy ride as we were taken to the ER and begging someone to get him a nice cup of green tea, which was refused of course, as the paramedics hinted at orthopedic surgery to fix the injury - at which he groaned once more and muttered, "Great. A simple sling won't do?"

In the ER they undid my improvised strap – for which I received good points – and was examined by a doctor. The collar bone fracture was diagnosed; a mobile X-Ray machine confirmed the clean break. Fortunately Jane had been able to brace himself and even though his shoulder had collided with the airbag, it hadn't caused any further damage. All in all, it could have been a lot worse but he still needed surgery to fix the break because one of the bones was pushing against his muscles, nerves and skin and could cause permanent damage if not repaired.

I was quickly checked over and approved for duty, so to speak.

The driver of the minivan was also brought in. He was stoned and very, very drunk. Didn't even know what happened and didn't realize he had smashed our car nor that I had saved his sorry life. The cops came in, took my statement and he was arrested and charged, being held under guard during his brief stay at the hospital.

Then the wait began. An IV was inserted into Jane's hand, pushing antibiotics and painkillers into his system, making him as comfortable as possible while they prepared an ER. Since we had eaten about three hours earlier, they had to wait for the surgery until he could be sedated. Patiently we sat together in the cubicle. With every waking second I saw Jane becoming more delirious, high on medication and acting giddy. I remembered his reaction to the Belladonna leaves and knew he could get really up there on the good stuff. Despite everything I laughed at the stupid jokes he made, unable to hold my face straight.

Finally they took him to the operating room and I promised to wait. I was brought into a room where they would keep Jane overnight after his surgery. Tired I sunk into a comfortable chair turned towards the window, looked outside over a green patch with several palm trees waving in the wind and fell asleep.

A couple of hours later the door opened and Jane was wheeled in, lying flat on a bed, his arm strapped into a decent sling this time, delirious but awake. "Hey Jane," I said, standing up and watching the two nurses making him comfortable.

"Hey, Lisbon," he slurred. "You're still here."

"Of course I am. Where else would I be? How are you feeling?"

He laughed with a giddy grin added for good matters and I knew that he was so doped up he wouldn't remember this conversation at all in the morning. "Fantastic."

The nurses smiled at me. "It'll wear off in a few hours," one of them said. "He'll sleep it off. Why don't you go home?"

"That's okay, I'll stay here," I waved.

"Okay. Here's the call button. Let us know if you need anything. The surgeon will come back to check up on him tomorrow morning. If everything's fine, you can leave in the afternoon. There is no reason for him to stay here, the surgery went really well and now it's a matter of time for the collar bone to heal."

I sighed in relief, expecting Jane to be stuck in here for at least a couple of days. Then they left us alone and I found myself sitting in a hospital room with a very delirious Jane who grinned and laughed whenever he came out of his stupor. Whatever they had given him during surgery sure made an impact.

Finally he and I both slept peacefully. Now and then a nurse walked in to check his IV and replace the bag. In the morning they walked in with two trays of breakfast, placing one before Jane and one before me. She helped him to sit up straight in the bed. Jane looked at the tray, smelled the coffee, wrinkled his nose and said, "Yuck!"

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "Sorry," I said with a smile. "He prefers tea. Would you be able to - ?"

"Sure," she replied, taking his coffee can outside and returning with a small tea can.

"You are my angel," Jane said, smiling at her so brightly I thought she would faint. Yep, Jane still had his way with the ladies. She actually blushed before leaving us alone and I had the tendency to punch him once more, reprimanding him for toying with these women.

Jane obviously couldn't spread his sandwiches. With one arm strapped to his waste, he was as helpless like a baby. "Come here," I said, taking charge and picking up the knife on his tray. "What would you do without me?"

"What indeed?" he replied, leaning back and watching me put butter and jam on his sandwich. I handed him the sandwich which he chewed up on calmly, sipping his tea in between bites. "You know, I actually thought I dreamt this entire night. But I didn't, did I?"

"Nope. You really broke your collar bone."

"That sucks," he sighed. "It sort of ruins everything, doesn't it?"

"What did it ruin?" I asked. "Well, apart from the fact that our dinner and evening didn't exactly end as expected. There's no reason to cancel the rest of this little holiday, is there?"

He eyed me suspiciously. "Are you serious? You're not going to haul us back to Austin?"

"Why would I? I can take care of you."

"Lisbon, I'm a lousy patient. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"Jane, I have seen you as a patient, remember?" I laughed. "I catch killers for a living. I can handle you. Besides, with one arm out of the equation, you might actually be as meek as a lamb." I placed the other sandwich on his tray and proceeded with my own food, starved as I was.

After breakfast Jane's IV was removed and we watched some television, looking at the news about last night's storm. Malibu houses had received the most damage. Jane frowned and I knew what he was thinking. We both wondered if his house had survived.

Then, we both sat up in shock. Because, before we even realized it, there I was, in full action, reviving our stoned driver who had slammed into us. Someone had obviously filmed me with a smartphone, as the video was blurry and unsteady. But it was definitely me. Shocked I stared at it with open mouth.

A dramatic female voice-over said: "Only a few moments after the car which she drove was crashed by another man, FBI-agent Teresa Lisbon heroically got out and resuscitated the man who had wounded her and her colleague, FBI-consultant Patrick Jane. Agent Lisbon was on her way to the hospital with her partner who had broken his collar bone during last night's Malibu storm. Teresa Lisbon, seriously injured herself, didn't hesitate when the other driver's heart stopped and revived him successfully. Later, she and her FBI-colleague were brought to the nearest hospital and admitted with major injuries. This is truly a heroin's story. Unfortunately we couldn't reach Miss Lisbon but latest news was that she was stabilized and would be able to leave the hospital quickly."

I almost choked in my coffee right there and then. "What the hell?" I muttered, feeling embarrassed and furious at the same time.

Then I heard a snort of laughter. As I looked at Jane, I saw him laughing bemused. "Now, that's entertainment for you," he said. "Teresa Lisbon, my hero."

"Jane! This is not funny. Do you know what will happen if the FBI hears about this? I'll be the laughing stock for ages!"

"Perhaps they'll give you a medal. After all, you did manage to place the Feds in a nice daylight for once."

"Yeah yeah. First of all, I wasn't injured at all. Secondly, they forgot to mention that guy was stoned. Thirdly, … how did they know I'm with the FBI?"

"You told the paramedics, remember? The guy filming it obviously heard it too and contacted the press, earning a nice little extra on the side."

I cursed something under my breath and sunk back down in my chair, knowing all too well this story would spread out and I would be recognized all over the place. And then I remembered Dennis James Knowles. "Do you think Knowles will have seen this?" I asked fearfully.

"Nah," Jane shrugged. "First of all, he isn't in California and this story is just local news. Secondly, it's just a blip. By tonight some celebrity will have broken his leg and that'll be the next headliner. Don't worry about it. Besides, nobody knows where we are staying."

I nodded uncertain, not so convinced. But there were no phone calls from Abbott or Cho, so I hoped and prayed that the damage remained under control.

Later that day the surgeon came in, explaining what was done and what to do next. "We set your broken collar bone with titanium plates," he explained to Jane. "You'll have to keep it in that sling for at least three weeks to four weeks. I want to see you back in about two weeks for a checkup; we'll take new X-Rays and see how the break is healing. If all goes well, we can remove the plates between four and six weeks – a minor surgery for which you'll have to be put under for a short while - and you can start physical therapy. If you follow my orders, you can go home, under the condition that you take it easy and rest, alright?"

Jane groaned at the prospect of this lengthy revalidation and another – if minor – operation. But he was tired and didn't say much except, "Thanks, doctor."

"Don't worry doctor," I said, "I'll make sure that he's back here on time and that he takes it easy."

The doctor smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Jane." Then he walked out before I could correct him.

Jane laughed. "Well, well, Mrs. Jane. I need to use the bathroom. Care to help me?"

"Not a chance in hell, Jane," I retorted, pushing the call button.

Then I picked up the phone and called Abbott, briefing him on the events, while a nurse helped Jane to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom. After a relatively nice lunch, Jane was discharged and we could leave. If I had known upfront what would happen, I would have insisted on staying. Unfortunately Jane isn't a real psychic and neither am I.


	8. Chapter 8: Patrick Jane

**Part 2: Swallowed in the Sea**

**Chapter 2.1: Patrick Jane **

Well, if anyone ever tells you that breaking a bone isn't that bad, they're lying. Okay, I have to admit that after surgery it all became much better, before that, it wasn't a walk in the park.

I don't remember much really from late last night. I slept and according to Lisbon I was as high as a kite but since I don't recall whatever I have said, I can't really confirm. What I can confirm though is that I was quite happy to be released so quickly from hospital. I hated hospitals and that typical, awful, nauseating smell they all seem to have in common.

Our car was shredded so we took a taxi to the nearest rental agency where Lisbon arranged for new wheels – _with _GPS this time – to get us back to Malibu. While she drove, I dozed off, only to be awoken when we arrived back at the mansion. She parked the car on the driveway, both of us sighing in relief to see that the house had withheld and nothing major was damaged.

Two of the shutters had become loose, one window was smashed in - fortunately it was from one of the utility rooms and not the living area – one window had been cracked and then there was also the one that had previously been damaged at the beginning of the storm.

Lisbon closed the shutters to those windows. "I'll ask the constructor to take care of the glass tomorrow," I told Lisbon who wanted to clean it up. "Don't worry about it; it'll be too dangerous to pick up all the pieces anyhow. You might hurt yourself."

"Okay," she simply said and then settled me in on the couch, unscrewing a bottle of (warm) wine in the kitchen. She brought back two glasses.

"My, my, Mrs. Jane, are you trying to get me drunk?" I quipped. "You do realize I'm on medication, right?"

She grinned. "That's why you're getting just a quarter, Mr. Jane, and I get a full glass. I thought we should celebrate your survival."

"You won't get rid of me that easily, you know," I said, accepting her glass. "I'm solid as a rock."

"I'm starting to think that you are." We drank and sat back on two couches, relaxed and at ease. "So," she continued. "What are our plans, apart from the nap you are going to take in about ten minutes?"

I raised an eyebrow. "A nap? I'm not a child, Agent Lisbon."

"No, but you did have surgery and you need to rest. Otherwise you're going back to that hospital in a straightjacket. How about you rest, I read, and for tonight I'm going to get some takeaway that we can eat during a candlelight dinner. How's that?"

"Are you going to dress sexy then?"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Just make sure you're wearing a see-through blouse though."

"I don't have sexy see-through blouses."

"Actually, you do. Well, that one that you were wearing the other day sure showed more than you intended to."

"It didn't!" she exclaimed, flushing a scarlet red. "Jane, you're making that up."

I looked straight into her eyes, very serious. Then I laughed. "Gotcha!"

"Damn you, Patrick Jane," she mumbled as she helped me get up. "As punishment you are grounded for an hour longer. Go to your room."

"You're no longer the boss of me, Agent Lisbon," I grinned while I allowed her to help me get up the stairs.

"Wanna bet?" In the guest bedroom she pulled back the blankets and sheets, made me sit down and pulled off my shoes and socks. Then she lifted my trusted jacket off of me, unbuttoned my shirt – one sleeve dangling over me – and helped me to lie back in bed. Her eyes lingered on the taped wound for a second. "Are you in pain?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine, Lisbon. But I do like you hovering over me. Didn't get much of that when I was a kid."

As I lay down, my head very comfortable on the pillow, she covered me again and closed the drapes. "I'll wake you up in a couple of hours. Just rest up."

"Lisbon?" I muttered, half asleep by then, so relieved was I to be back here.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks … again."

"You're welcome … again."

Before she even closed the door, I was in a deep sleep.

I woke up right before she knocked on the door, feeling rested and ready to face the world once more. "Hey," she said, "it's after 6 p.m. – you slept for hours. Are you okay?"

"Never better," I said, lingering a second longer on my pillow before sitting up gingerly. A slight throbbing pain shot through my shoulder but it was durable. Pain medication was not needed.

"Good." She helped me sit up straight so I could swing my legs out of bed. She pulled my socks back on, helped me in my shoes and I walked to the bathroom alone.

"Need help?" she called from beyond the door while her phone rang.

"I'm fine!" I shouted back, thinking that no matter what, Teresa Lisbon was _not _going see me sitting on the toilet butt naked. Okay, so it took about fifteen minutes longer but it was worth it.

In those fifteen minutes, her phone rang off the hook. She didn't pick up once. "What's going on?" I asked as I exited the bathroom.

"The media," Lisbon muttered angrily. "Somehow they tracked down my number and now everyone keeps on calling me for a statement on last night's events."

"How do you know it's all media?"

"They're all local area numbers, I made the stupid mistake of answering the first three calls and now it seems they can't let go." She raised her hands in the air. "What do I have to do to be left alone?"

"Just ignore them," I said. "They'll get tired of it real soon."

We went downstairs where she dropped her phone on the kitchen counter, sat down on the porch when evening fell and a very peaceful, calm sunset became ours to watch. "Aren't you going to miss this, Jane?" she asked as we looked at it. "The ocean, this deck, it's such a shame. Are you sure you can't keep it?"

"No," I said, "I've made up my mind and am not going to change it now. "This is the right thing to do."

Then I rose. "Can we go for a short walk?"

"Sure," she said, rising from her chair and helping me down the stairs. I kicked off my shoes and walked barefoot on the sand, taking her with me to the right. About three minutes further, there was a small private beach and a special place I wanted to show her. It was hidden behind a line of rocks that seemed to split this side of the beach. Behind those rocks, there was a small patch of sand hardly anyone came. You had to walk through the water to get there.

Curiously she followed me as we passed that rocky line, towards the little alcove.

There, I sat down.

"What is it, Jane?" she asked concerned, obviously seeing the expression on my face.

"I need to say goodbye to this spot," I told her. "It's special to me."

"Special in what way?"

I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to tell her, yet knowing that I had to. It was one of the last secrets I held.

"When Angela and Charlotte – when they died – I wanted to die too. You know about that, about my time at the hospital. I couldn't bear the guilt and detested myself so much. So the day after they died, I came here. This place, you see, I called it Charlotte's Cove, was our little hideout from the world. Nobody used it, it was ours. It was private secluded and safe. So when they died, I came here and I walked into the sea. I literally walked into the water and forced myself to go under water, to drown. But they found me. Her family found me and dragged me out. I wanted to be swallowed in the sea, Teresa, but they wouldn't let me go. After that, I was taken to the hospital and from then on to the psychiatric hospital until I recovered enough not to think about suicide every minute of the day."

I knew Lisbon was looking at me quietly. "When I came back after the hospital, I came back here too and instead of this place becoming my grave, it became my rescue. Here, I could think about Red John clearly. For years, whenever I came back to the house, this place kept me sane. So, to answer your question, Lisbon: No, I will not miss the house, but I will miss Charlotte's Cove."

She placed her hand on my arm. "It's okay to miss the past, Jane. There is nothing wrong with that. Just miss the good parts and the good memories, not the bad ones."

I smiled at her as a soft breeze touched us both. Then I looked at Charlotte's Cove one last time, somehow sensing that this might be one of the last times I would ever see it and turned. "I'm starving. How about you?"

"Oh yeah," she said. "Fancy anything special?"

As we walked back, I grasped her hand and squeezed it. Surprised she let me, a huge grin dancing on her face when I let go again.

"There's a fantastic Thai Restaurant about ten minutes from here," I said. "Well, there used to be. Let me see if I can still find a card. Angela had kept a drawer stacked with addresses and flyers of good restaurants in the area."

Back at the house, I went inside to search for the address. Since nothing had been removed, it was still there. I dug up an old, yellowish card with golden lettering on it and handed it to her. "Just pick anything. Surprise me, Lisbon."

"Okay. I'm going to head out now then," she said, grabbing her jacket, purse and keys. "This one's on me. Go rest on the deck, Jane. I'll see you soon."

"Drive carefully."

I waited until she drove off the driveway before going back inside, turning on candles as the sun set and closing windows all over the floor that I could handle with one hand. I spotted her phone still lying on the counter, the sound switched off. It buzzed all the time now. I scrolled through the missed calls and noticed Abbott had rung her twice as well. My phone lay next to hers where it had been lying since last night. The battery was running low; it would switch off at any minute.

I shrugged, deciding I would take Lisbon out for breakfast in the morning and charge the phones then. Neither of us wanted to go out tonight. I sat back down on the deck and looked over the ocean, visible only under the moonlight and stars while my arm and elbow rested comfortably in the medical sling.

I closed my eyes and listened to the waves crashing on the shore. This was one of the very last nights I could do this; I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. Then I heard a creaking sound to my right, one of the wooden floor boards on the deck. Without opening my eyes, I said, "You're back quickly. I hope you picked out good food, Lisbon. I'm starving."

When she didn't reply, I looked up, momentarily blinded by the late evening sun, only to see a stranger hovering over me. Before I could clear my mind, realizing this was all wrong, it was too late. I saw the stranger's fist coming towards my face, sending me flying out of the chair, toppling the chair with me as I fell backwards onto the deck, hitting it hard with the back of my head. I didn't see stars, didn't pass out but almost wished I had when the man grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me up. "So, Mr. Jane" he said. "Where is she?"

He had found us. And I had sworn that he never would.


	9. Chapter 9: Teresa Lisbon

**Chapter 2.2: Teresa Lisbon **

I didn't even realize something was off when I came back. I pushed the key into the front door, pushed it open, walked to the kitchen and placed the Thai food on the counter. As I started to unload the fantastic smelling food, I shouted, "Jane, where are you? Hurry up, the food is getting cold."

There was no answer while I dug up two plates, two new wine glasses and a huge wooden tray on which I placed all the cardboard boxes, chopsticks and a nice bottle of chilled Chardonnay.

"Jane," I repeated. "Are you coming?"

Again it remained very quiet. I picked up my phone and saw another ten missed calls, including Abbott's. I cursed quietly, deciding to call back after dinner. He was probably just checking up on us. I left the food where it was and headed out to the deck. He wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere downstairs. Moving upstairs, I called his name again. This time though, I felt a chill run down my spine. Something was off.

"Jane," I said, trying to remember where I had last seen my gun, remembering I had left it in Charlotte's room. "Are you alright?"

I walked into Charlotte's room cautiously, now certain there was something wrong. As I opened the door, in the darkness I saw a figure coming at me, grabbing me by my jacket and throwing me inside her room, against her bed. My back collided painfully with the hard wood. Numb, I remained lying down.

The attacker picked me up as if I weighed nothing and dragged me towards a chair where he sat me down roughly, grabbing my hands and tying them behind my back with a thick piece of rope. He then stuffed a rag into my mouth, keeping it in place with a towel which he tied over my mouth, knotting it behind my hand. He wasn't very careful and my head banged twice against the chair before he finished, knocking me out. When I came to, I tried to work my wrists around the restraints but the rope dug painfully into them. He had bound them so tight I could feel the blood being cut off towards my fingers. I knew I couldn't free myself.

The attacker remained in the dark at first but I knew exactly who he was before he lit a candle, holding that in his left hand while he approached, catching the fear in my eyes. There was no doubt in my mind it was him. He had found us.

In his right hand he held my gun.

"FBI-Agent Lisbon," Dennis James Knowles spoke calmly. "How are you? Well, don't answer that question. I'm sure you've never been better."

I didn't move an inch while I looked at him, pushing back my fear and replacing it with anger. Did he notice? I didn't know. But I knew that types like him should never see how frightened you are. You should challenge them by acting cocky and as if you don't care.

He placed the candle in its holder on a small table next to my chair and sat down on Charlotte's bed, the gun dangling in his hands. "So," he said. "You thought I wasn't going to find you, right? Running away from Austin with your boyfriend didn't do you much good, now did it? You made it quite easy for me. I knew of course the FBI would tuck you away somewhere but I had no idea where to begin. And I decided after some thinking that Sacramento might be a good place to start since you've lived there for so long. So there I was, going about my business, trying to ask questions about you while hiding out from all the cops and Feds, flipping channels early this morning. And guess what I saw? Imagine my surprise. Let me tell you, Teresa, it really wasn't that difficult. You were in LA, on your way to a hospital in the Malibu area and your boyfriend Patrick Jane just happened to own a house around here. Easy peasy."

He moved forward slightly, making sure I saw his face and eyes. "Thank you for your help."

I tried to speak, my mind twirling towards Jane. I pushed my dry tongue against the rag, trying to force it out of my mouth. Finally Dennis moved forward, untying the towel and pulling the rag painfully out of my mouth. It hurt when he did that, the rag grazing my lips.

"Where is Jane?" I asked.

He smiled. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," I said, trying to fight back my despair. "Did you kill him?"

"Your boyfriend is unable to defend you at this time, Agent Lisbon. You're on your own."

Defeated I slumped back slightly, believing he was dead. "What did you do to him?"

He waved with my gun. "Kicked him around a bit, he didn't put up much of a fight. Your boyfriend is pretty weak."

"He's not my boyfriend," I said sharply. "He's my colleague. If you kill him, the entire Bureau will come after you. They'll hunt you down until you will be begging to be found."

He leaned back on the bed. "Does it look like I care, Teresa?"

"Please tell me where he is and what you did to him."

Knowles shrugged. "He's in the other room, sound asleep. Don't worry; he's alive, just very much out of it. I forced him to take his pain medication … all at once. He wouldn't listen to me, kept on talking like I'm some idiot he could influence, so I had to take measures to make sure he wouldn't try something stupid like trying to save you. Not that he would be capable of doing that, seeing he's not exactly in fighting mood as it is."

"How much did you give him?" I asked fearfully, trying to remember what painkillers he had been given at the hospital and how much he would be able to take before it killed him.

"Oh, don't worry. He's not going to die from them. I gave him four pills, enough to keep him calm for a coupleof hours. By then, you should be able to decide."

"Decide on what?"

"On how you to die, Teresa. I don't have the luxury of finding a forest around here where I can strap you in a tree, do I? I was wrecking my brain on what the most painful death would be I could give you. Then I decided that I would let you choose for yourself. Well, that and who is going to die first."

I paled, realizing our time was very limited and I would have to use every trick in the book to stall this, hoping and praying someone would be smart enough to know that we were in big trouble. But who would come to our rescue? I had called Abbott to tell him about Jane's collar bone, had reassured him that everything was fine and had neglected to mention I had been on television – on purpose. None of them were the wiser; none of them realized that we needed help.

I tried to remember where my phone was, probably still downstairs on the kitchen counter, next to the Thai food and my purse. I would never be able to get to it. _Damn it! _

Knowles slid off the bed and approached me, leaning forward so he could kiss me. I felt his rough lips on mine, smelled the awful stench of stale breath and unwashed clothes and closed my eyes repulsed, waiting for the ordeal to pass. Then he tried to force his tongue inside my mouth but I kept my lips shut, shutting him mentally out of this room. He wasn't a rapist. He hadn't sexually violated those women. But he did have a soft spot for all of them, adoring them from a distance. That had been his trigger: his attraction to them. Suddenly he let go and hit me square in the face using the palm of his hand. I could feel my lip burst and fought back a groan with all I had in me.

He hated the way I reacted, I could tell. He had hoped I would at least respond, allowing him to gain control. But I hadn't and he couldn't stand that. I was still in control, even if I was tied on this chair and powerless to fight him physically.

"Okay then," he sighed. "I've got two options for you to consider in case of chosen deaths. Option 1 is that you die together and you get to decide who dies first. We are going to play a game of Russian roulette. Well that is to say: Your FBI-friend and you are going to do it. You get to choose who is going to go first to pull the trigger. Then the other one goes. And so on, until death do us both part. You can die together, quite romantic, don't you think? You won't have to be worried about survivor's guilt there."

I looked at him without saying a single word.

"The second game … now that is one you are really going to like. You see, this game will allow the two of you to decide amongst yourselves who is going to live and who is going to die. I will kill only one of you. The other one gets to live on with the guilt of being the survivor. The person who is going to die gets to choose his own death. That's a fair deal, isn't it? The other one will remain harmless and walks away freely. So, what do you say?"

I said absolutely nothing.

"Alright then," he said, standing up from the bed. "The rest is up to you, Teresa. But don't worry; I'll treat you well while you think about your dilemma. I wouldn't want you dead earlier, now would I?"

Quietly he left the room, allowing me to think for the first time. I knew escape was not an option at this point, unless I got him to free me, which he would never do. I struggled against the ropes, trying to free my wrists. All I ended up doing was scrape the skin off them, the pain of it keeping me alert. Desperate and tired I leaned against the back of the chair, hoping that Jane had somehow managed to fight against the drugs and was alert and capable of saving us both.

Before I could think of another plan, Knowles was back, carrying a tray of Thai food and a spoon. "I thought you might be hungry," he said. "It was getting cold, such a waste of good food, don't you think?"

I stared at him wordless while he shoved another chair in front of me, picked up the spoon and dug into one of the boxes. "Open your mouth, Teresa."

I refused to do so.

"Teresa, open your mouth."

I closed my eyes, not wanting to look at him.

"If you don't open your mouth, I will pick up your gun, go into his room and put a bullet into his head."

I opened my eyes and mouth, defying him as I stared into his dark pupils.

He smiled. "Now, that's a good girl. It seems that you care more for Jane than you do for yourself. Again, I have proven my point. And strangely enough, he feels the exact same way. If he's not your boyfriend, he sure as hell means a lot to you. This is going be fun!"

With that, he threw the tray on the floor, stood up and left. I bit my lip in anger, upset that I had betrayed myself. He now held all the cards to use us against each other.

Angry I shouted a curse, closed my eyes and tried to think of ways to get us out of here.


	10. Chapter 10: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 2.3: Patrick Jane**

When Knowles entered the room again, I kept my eyes shut as I lay face down on the bed, fighting back the excruciating pain of my two hands being forced behind my back, pulling roughly at the stitches of the surgical wound and the titanium plates holding the two fragments together. He couldn't have hurt me more had he shot me in the leg.

Why the hell hadn't I seen him coming, I asked myself over and over again. Because I had been too much at ease, too relaxed, too certain he wouldn't find us. If that storm hadn't happened, if I hadn't been so stupid to go out and close the shutters, if we hadn't gone to the hospital … No, it was no use going there now. What was done was done. Now I had to find a way to get us out of here.

He sat down on a chair facing the guest bed he had thrown me on. "I know you're awake, Patrick Jane."

I opened my eyes and looked at him. After he attacked me on the deck, he had pulled me up, removed the medical so roughly I swore I could hear a stitch burst and forced my hands behind me back, hurting me so badly I swore I could see red before my eyes. My shoulder – if we made it out of here – could be damaged so badly it might take months now to heal. He then forced me to go inside, up the stairs and into this room. I started to talk to him, trying to get him to listen to me. I reasoned with hem, tried to get him to look me in the eyes so I could hypnotize him but he didn't budge.

Then he had sat me down on the bed, holding the small capsule with pain medication in his hands. "You are going to take four of these pills," he said. "Or I will put a bullet into your head right now and I'll kill her as soon as she sets foot in this house."

"You don't have to drug me, I'll behave," I said.

"I just want you to shut up," he hissed. "Stop rambling like a mad man. Take them or I'll shoot her in the head."

"Alright," I had agreed, knowing we needed to stall to find a way out of here.

He then shoved the four pills into my mouth, forced me to drink half a bottle of water and opened my mouth roughly to see if I had swallowed them. It took about ten minutes before I felt the effect of the strong painkillers, getting dizzier by the minute. Then I fell on my side on the bed, rolling onto my stomach as I fell asleep.

Later on, how much later I didn't know but it was dark out, I woke up and heard his voice through the walls in the room next door: Charlotte's room. Even though Lisbon spoke softly and I was unable to hear her clearly, I knew she was there and she was alright. That brought back my fighting spirit immediately. She was biding time as well, upsetting him, I could tell. I heard the smash of a tray being thrown on the floor.

_That's my girl_, I thought pleased, putting two and two together. She was pissing him off and that was exactly what you did with murderers like him. Together we could beat this guy. We stood a chance, as slim as it might be.

Then he walked in here, sitting down and knowing I was awake.

I opened my eyes, lying sideways on the bed and looked at him. "What are your plans, Dennis? If you plan to kill us, do it already. It's not like that we believe you are going to let us live anyhow."

"You are right about that part," he agreed, "but the way to do it is often more important than the actual kill. You should know that, Mr. Jane."

I sensed this man knew a lot more about me than I wanted him to.

"Revenge can be so bitter sweet, don't you agree? Using your bare hands instead of using a gun, it can feel so perfect. Why would one use a gun when there are so many ways of feeling so much more satisfied?"

"I've read all about you," I replied hoarsely, trying to gain the lead in this conversation. "Murdering these women really got you off, didn't it? It wasn't just the hunt or the kill, but especially the way you tied them into those trees, watching them bleed to death, their blood dripping on the ground before you as their eyes begged for mercy. Until the last drop of blood fell and they gasped their final breaths, they pleaded with you to live. But you took photos of them instead, mocked at their vulnerability and their naivety when you stole them from their homes. They went with you because they believed that everyone had a good heart in your town. Only to realize they had encountered that one demon that lived amongst them."

"Nice psychoanalysis, Mr. Jane. But it was actually quite easy. Unfortunately I had the back luck of bumping into Teresa Lisbon. She took away what was rightfully mine. I had so many plans and she ruined them all."

"Don't kid yourself, Dennis. You would never have become the greatest serial killer of all time. Too much competition, I'm afraid."

"Well, it's not too late to obliterate them, is it? I have my whole life ahead of me now." Knowles leaned forward. "I already found the perfect new hideout. There's this quiet little Utah village where people hardly read newspapers or keep up with the daily news. Imagine their fear when young woman start end up being found with their stomachs cut open. Imagine what I could do in a place like that."

"I swear to you that you will be stopped," I said calmly. "Your life ends here, in this house."

He laughed. "Who is going to stop me? You? A crippled man who can only fight back with words and sassy remarks? There is no one here to rescue you, Mr. Jane. There are no cops, no Feds, nobody. You made it quite easy on me, you know? Here I was, thinking I would have to kidnap Agent Lisbon in front of her colleagues. Instead, you brought her straight into my arms."

I bit my lip, realizing he was right. My well-meant intentions had been pulled to shreds. We were no longer in Austin, where Cho, Abbott, Fischer could protect Lisbon with guns, making sure she was protected against Knowles. I had taken her out of that safety net, believing he would never find us here. And he wouldn't have, if it weren't for that video.

"Don't beat yourself over it, Mr. Jane," Knowles said. "I would have found taken her out sooner or later anyway. You took her here to get her out of plain sight, didn't you? You thought they would find me very quickly and I would be taken back to that hellhole so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. But I have learned a great deal in prison. I know how to stay low profile now. I can blend in with the crowds. I would have been around without you even spotting it."

"Don't kid yourself, Dennis," I muttered. "We've caught a lot more dangerous men than you."

"Perhaps you have," he smiled dangerously, hovering over me. "But you've never been in this defenseless situation before either, have you?"

He had a point.

"Alright then, Mr. Jane." He took his time coming to his point, knowing he had all the time in the world. "I'll give you the same dilemma I have given Agent Lisbon. It'll give you some time to think about it. It's going to be a long night."

He then told me his intent. We were to choose how to die? We could die together, playing a game of Russian roulette, going down together. Or, decide which one of us was going to live and which one was going to die?

He watched my face, probably surprised by the lack of emotion on it. Little did he know that I didn't fear death, in fact, there had been plenty of times where I had challenged it, looked it straight into the eyes and beckoned for it to take me away from his world. I had been through too much, both mentally and physically, to be afraid of his offer.

Now though, as our phones downstairs were – hopefully – still ringing off the hook, perhaps – hopefully – alerting people we were in trouble and needed help, all we could do was buy time. Time for someone to get here and save us, for we would not be able to do it ourselves.

"So," he finished. "That's it. I'll give you until 4 a.m. to think about your choices and what your proposition will be. After that, I'm afraid we must make haste and I will have to finish this quickly. It's now nearly midnight. That means you have four hours to decide. I'll come back. For now, I'm going to have some fun with Agent Lisbon."

"Don't harm her," I said weakly. "You can already have my answer. You know what it is."

"Oh, I won't lay a finger on her," he smiled. "I'll leave that for later. I'll come back for your answer later. You can brood on that for now."

With that, he closed the door and left me alone, not knowing I was so high on adrenaline I managed to move up from the bed and sit up straight, knowing I had four hours to free myself from these bonds and think of a way to attack and kill him.


	11. Chapter 11: Teresa Lisbon

**Chapter 2.4: Teresa Lisbon **

Knowles came back into the room to find me struggling once more against the ropes strapping me on this chair and straddling my hands together. My shoulders, arms and hands were completely numb. He had tied me up so tightly that it hurt whenever I tried to move.

"There, there, Teresa," he spoke gently as I sat back down on that chair, pretending I hadn't tried to free myself. "You're not exactly Houdini, are you? What's the point of fighting against me when you know you don't stand a chance?"

"Go to hell," I muttered, unable to hide my contempt and anger.

He moved forward and pulled on the ropes, loosening them up such a tiny bit so that my hands regained some blood and I could move my fingers more. "Is that better?" he asked friendly.

I didn't say a word but the relief must have been clearly visible, for he laughed. "Can you stand up?"

I stood easily, as he hadn't tied my ankles together. He touched my shoulder briefly when I swayed on both feet, laughing as I brushed him off.

"Good girl. Now here is what we are going to do. I'm going to take you downstairs and feed you some dinner. We'll have a nice little chat then. If you do exactly what I tell you, I'll let Jane live. If you don't, he's dead. Alright?"

I nodded in contempt.

My gun was stuffed between his belt and trousers; he picked up the candle holder and opened the door for me, allowing me to go first down the dark corridor, down the stairs and into the well-lit living room. I noticed that he had locked down the house, closing all the shutters. Without the candles, it would be pitch dark here.

He made me sit down on a bar stool, helping me again with a simple grasp of my elbow. Then he looked at the now cold and greasy Thai food. "Thai or a sandwich?"

"Sandwich," I said.

"Good. Then Thai is it." He picked a spoon from the drawer and started rummaging into one of the boxes, moving to my side while he did this. "Open up, Teresa."

I knew it was no point refusing so I opened my mouth and allowed him to slide the spoon into my mouth. I felt the cold food enter my mouth, sliding over my tongue and fought against the bile rising from my stomach. "Don't spit it out, Teresa, or Patrick dies."

I knew he was toying with me and enjoying every second of it. I closed my mouth and chewed on the chicken. It might as well have been rubber, tasting so vile it was horrendous. Finally I managed to swallow it and felt it slide down the back of my throat.

He watched my every move. "How does it feel to be on the other side, Teresa? Here you are, completely harmless and defenseless, yet you still have that arrogant look on your face that tells me that you want to be in charge. But I decide what is going to happen to you. You have no control whatsoever."

"Can you get me some more of that delicious chicken?" I asked defiantly, opening my mouth.

That was the button to push. Frustrated and upset he threw the box against one of the white walls, splattering its contents all over the place, leaving greasy splatters of food everywhere.

I smiled. "You are a coward with a short temper, Dennis. In the end, that is what's going to kill you."

His hand smacked fully across my face, sending me backwards off the stool onto the ground. I fell on my back, my hands still tied behind me and could feel a snap as my arms and hands collided with the ground. I had broken my left wrist. Groaning in pain I stayed on the ground until he reached for me with both hands and pulled me up, slapping me so hard the skin on my temple broke.

Then his hands were around my throat and he was so close that I was certain I would be strangled right here and then. I could feel his fingertips on my skin. Even in the shady light I could tell it took him everything he had in him not to do it.

Finally he threw me back on the ground and I fell sideways, my temple bumping into the floor. I could taste my own blood as I remained lying down, panting and exhausted. There he was, suddenly quite worried about me. "Can you hear me?" I heard him ask. "Are you alright?"

I couldn't answer that, blinded by pain.

He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing and placed me on the couch, his hand stroking my face and pulling my long hair away. As I lay on the sofa, I kept my eyes closed, fighting against the pain. When I finally looked up, he sighed relieved.

"Good. It's too soon to die, Teresa."

Both of us were startled by a loud banging and crashing sound coming from upstairs. Knowles looked at me, then he looked up and then he cursed. Before I could stop him, he grabbed my gun from the counter and hurried upstairs.

"Jane!" I shouted as loudly as I could, praying he would hear me. "Jane, watch out!"

With that, he left me alone in that living room and I fought back my tears of pain as I forced my broken wrist to frantically work against the ropes that tied me down. My right, healthy wrist, struggled until I could force it from the bonds, my small fingers pulling at the end until the knot gave way and I could force my hand free from it.

The other hand followed quickly. I threw the ropes on the ground, rushed to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until I found a butcher's knife, grasping this tight and running upstairs after Knowles. Before I could reach him, I heard a single shot rang loudly through the corridor. And I froze.

I prayed all the time for help as I heard my phone buzzing again on that kitchen counter, that Cho, Abbott or Fischer had to sense something was terribly wrong.

They had to sense it. They just had to!


	12. Chapter 12: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 2.5: Patrick Jane **

My shoulder went numb as I lay for what seemed to be hours on that bed. My hands and fingers were clawing constantly at the ropes that bound my wrists. I had large hands and long fingers but couldn't reach the rope and free myself. Apart from that, every single move I made ached so badly that I swore I could feel those titanium plates struggle to keep my broken collar bone together. Every single move also pulled at the stitches keeping the surgical wound together.

I forced myself to escape and go into the world of oblivion, where pain didn't exist and I could concentrate on the same movements over and over again, for an hour or so continuing on my hands and wrists. Finally I realized that this was no use and I had to find other ways of getting rid of those bonds.

I scanned the guest room, trying to remember what was in those closets and drawers. Everything Angela had ever bought was still there, lingering under clouds of dust. Then I also tried to remember what was in the bathroom. My own toiletries that I had brought with me from Austin: A small pair of scissors, a razor blade. If I could reach for one of those, I could cut through the ropes.

With a deep grunt I rolled onto my right side, facing the door. I pushed myself up until I came up in a sitting position. Then I slid my legs one by one off the bed, using my hands to push myself to the edge of the bed, sending a new push of pain through my upper body. He had tied my hands behind my back so hard that every single move ached worse than the actual break had done.

There was no time to linger on that though, there was just a short period of time left before he would come back. I had no idea where he was or what he was doing, hoping that he somewhere downstairs and thought I was harmless.

My head spun as I stood on two wavering legs, straining every muscle in my legs as I kept my balance. Finally I was off the bed, standing on the carpet. I slumped towards the bathroom, cursing in frustration when I realized the blade was on the top shelf and I couldn't reach for it. I tried to open the cupboards, succeeded after three attempts and found them empty.

Making my way back to the bedroom, I looked around angrily, hoping to find _something _to get us out of this situation. Only to realize there was nothing there but the beautiful dressing mirror Angela had purchased fifteen years ago, stating how beautiful that would look in the guest bedroom. It was a classic oval mirror based in a beautiful modern frame. It would be a shame to smash it.

I stared at my own reflection for a second, realizing I would have to use my elbow to break the glass, only wearing a shirt to protect my skin from the glass. I then turned to the left side, moved so my elbow rested against the mirror and then shoved it full force against the glass, aiming directly at the center of it. It didn't budge the first time. But the second time, I made such a strong move that it cracked immediately, breaking into large shards held back by the frame. I cursed once more, hoping Knowles hadn't heard the noise. Then I used my elbow a third time, shattering the shards all over the ground. A few shards protruded my shirt and skin, embedding themselves into my elbow. I winced, bit my lip and sunk through my knees so I could reach one of the larger pieces of glass on the floor.

I felt glass enter my fingertips and palms of my hands as I tried to grasp the shard, blood spilling all over the wooden floor and matching carpet. I let go. Then I tried again, my fingers roaming over the floor until I found another piece. I picked it up gently, holding it between my fingers and found the rope. Frantically I started to cut while footsteps came running up the stairs, heading straight for this room.

With all of my might I cried out in relief as the ropes fell of my wrists. I had cut several times into my own skin but didn't even feel that anymore. The ropes were cut; I could wiggle them off me, bit back the extreme pain as my broken shoulder suddenly became free and rushed forward to lock the guest bedroom door.

A second or so later, he was there, his hand trying to push the door handle, only to find it locked.

Shivering I stood against the other side of the door, hearing him curse my name and banging against the door. "Jane, open now or I swear I'll put a bullet through her head!"

I leaned back against the door with a sigh, trying to regain some of my senses and strength so I could fight him. My mind tried to think of all the ways we could get out of this predicament. He kept on banging on the door, shouting my name and cursing. Then it became awfully quiet.

Then I heard Lisbon shout. A single shot rang out. I stepped back in shock, not realizing what was happening. In that exact millisecond, I felt something strike me in the back. I moved away from the door, frantically grasping my left hand side as I realized I had been shot. It didn't hurt. I didn't feel any pain at all.

As I touched my back, my hand came back covered in blood. I saw a circle of blood forming on my front as well. I was shot. I was actually _shot_. And it didn't hurt. Confused I moved into the room, hearing him crash his foot against the door over and over again. As he finally succeeded, he fell forward into the room, losing his balance for just one second and then regaining control.

We both stared at each other. He had Lisbon's gun in his hands, with which he had shot me.

My shirt was covered in blood as it came surging out of the bullet hole. The numbness was taking off, suddenly I was struck with pain as I sunk to my knees and fell forward to the floor, laying there senseless, useless, waiting for Knowles to finish the job.

He took three steps towards me, then turned around and shouted at Lisbon standing behind him, lifting his gun in the air. That was the last thing I saw before darkness took me away.


	13. Chapter 13: Teresa Lisbon

**Chapter 2.6: Teresa Lisbon**

I saw what had happened in a second. Jane lay bleeding on the floor, Knowles stood over him with my gun in his hands. Jane's back was covered in blood. I ran into the room, the butcher's knife in my right hand as a weapon. Knowles turned and saw me, tried to jump aside and raise his gun at the same time. The knife grazed his chest barely. With the gun in his hand, he easily grabbed the knife from me and shoved it to the ground, forcing me down with it. With one foot he kicked it away from me. It lingered on the floor, right besides Jane.

I fell on the ground next to Jane, ignoring Knowles as I crawled up and leaned over Jane, carefully feeling for a pulse, fearing he was dead. "Jane," I cried out, feeling a faint pulse to my great relief. He was still alive. I pulled his shirt out of his pants to look at the wound, finding a single entry wound in his back and an exist wound in the front. There was a lot of blood but the bullet had gone in in a good place, if you could call that good. If I was correct, no organs would be damaged. It was a through and through, something I would call a stroke of luck under these circumstances.

With my good hand I reached for Jane's open suitcase lying on the floor next to the bed, pulling out another white shirt that I folded as well as I could and pushed against his abdomen. Knowles – that bastard – actually sat down on the bed and watched me struggle.

Jane moaned slightly as I touched him and opened his eyes. He was in bad shape. His shoulder was bleeding too, stitched ripped and blood soaking through the bandage.

"Jane," I whispered. "Stay quiet. I will get us out of here, I swear."

Jane moved, soaked in sweat and grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at him without Knowles seeing it, keeping his head down and turned to my side.

I was surprised at the way he stared at me so intently. He was very alert. Then he winked and I realized he had only passed out for a second, pretending to be hurt so badly that Knowles didn't consider him a threat anymore. I could tell he was hurting but it wasn't as bad as I feared. I turned towards Knowles, making sure he didn't see Jane's hand going for the knife.

"You're going to kill him!" I shouted, tears streaming down my face as I performed the act of a lifetime. "He needs a doctor!"

Knowles shrugged. "He was going to die anyway."

"No," I said, standing up slowly. "You said we could choose. I'm choosing Jane over me. He needs to live. You promised! You _have_ to save him."

"He broke the agreement," Knowles snarled. "He shouldn't have tried to fight me. There is no more promise to keep now. You lose. Both of you." With that, Knowles approached Jane, aiming the gun at his head as he knelt down. Jane, with closed eyes, grasped the knife tight.

"Wait!" I said sharply, drawing Knowles' attention towards me. He turned, sitting half down and looked at me. At that exact moment, Jane stabbed the knife into Knowles' calf. Knowles screamed in pain, reaching for his leg, one hand still holding my gun and refusing to let go. He waved it downward towards Jane. I shoved him hard forwards, pushing him away from Jane and kicking him to the ground with all of my might.

Knowles fell to the floor, dazed long enough for me to grab Jane and help him stand up. I knew we were both too damaged to win a physical fight with Knowles. We only had a few moments before he would regain his focus and shoot us both.

"Come on, Jane," I said, holding on tight. "We need to run, _now_!" I grabbed his left, undamaged hand with my left damaged hand, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through my broken wrist bones and kicked two candles on the ground in the process. One of them went out immediately; the other one fell on the carpet which caught fire within a second. With his foot, Jane shoved the carpet before the door, which I shut as we ran off.

Jane followed me blindly as we made our way down the stairs, both of us so high on adrenaline we could barely think. All we thought about was our escape. We heard him shout upstairs as we ran through the house, out the back door, over the deck, to the staircase and onto the mulled sand.

"To the right," Jane panted as we kept on running. "Charlotte's Cove." That was all he said as we escaped, not looking back once.

As we ran over the beach, our feet caught in the treacherous sand, Jane slowed down with every step. Even in the darkness of the night, I could see the trail of blood he left behind. "Keep going," I encouraged him, "almost there."

"Just leave me," I panted.

"No, Jane." And then, to push me, "I won't let you go, Patrick. You won't be swallowed in the sea."

That was enough to keep me going.

By the time we reached the black rocks, only a very short distance from the house, yet seemingly miles away, Jane was out of strength. He slumped forward, clinging onto the rocks. I supported his back, looking back frantically and cursing the fact not a single neighbor could help us, detesting this solitude for the first time.

As I looked back, I saw two things which both terrified and horrified me. First was that the house was on fire. I saw to my horror the telltale flames bursting through one of the upper windows, realizing it came from the guest room. The candles … But I had no time to think about that for one more second, as the second thing which terrified me, Knowles, was right behind me, grabbed me in the neck and pushed me forward, until my head collided with the rocks and I fell like a rag doll on the sand.


	14. Chapter 14: Patrick Jane

**Chapter 2.7: Patrick Jane**

Heaving, I saw Lisbon falling on the sand. Blood poured from a gash on her forehead. She was out cold. Knowles leaned over her, reaching for her.

I couldn't think anymore at that moment. I hadn't felt so much hatred towards someone since McAllister. I hadn't wanted to kill someone with my bare hands since that day in the park. But now, I was angry. I was out of my mind with anger. That alone pushed away any sense of pain. I used all of my body weight to attack Knowles, throwing him and myself to the ground, our bodies colliding like two tons of bricks. He fell backwards, dropping Lisbon's gun on the sand. Biting back the excruciating pain in my upper body, I used my good right hand to knock him twice in the face, feeling his nose bone break underneath my fist.

He screamed in pain, automatically reaching for his nose with one hand as the other one balled into a fist and knocked back, sending me backwards, off him and into the sand. He crawled up, going at me. We ended up struggling in the sand, both of us fighting for our lives – and for Lisbon's.

I felt how my body kicked into adrenaline modus, how even my damaged left arm seemed to do what I wanted, how I couldn't feel the pain in my torso anymore, eager and ready to take Knowles out. As he attacked me, I was ready for him, throwing him off me, using my one good right arm to hold back the blows he tried to deliver, kicking him hard where the sun don't shine. He yelped, fell off me, reached for the sore area between his legs, came up and again fought to get a hold on me.

I was ready. I rolled away from him, leaving a trail in the sand, crawled up, threw myself on the sand and reached for Lisbon's gun, now only a few inches away. Knowles saw what I was getting at and threw himself at my legs, holding me back. I kicked at him. He held onto his grip and turned me around just as I had the gun in my hand. The weapon was between us. Both of his hands reached for it and just as I fired it once, he pulled my hand and arm up in the air, the gun missing its target. He gripped my wrist so tightly I was sure he would break it.

Then he was grabbed and pulled back from behind. Two small hands – one attached to a broken wrist that must have hurt like hell – pulled him backwards, throwing him to the sand. This was our only chance. I crawled up on my knees, lifting the gun.

"Lisbon!" I shouted and she let herself fall sideways. I aimed the gun at his chest, firing it three times, until there were no bullets left. I kept on pulling the trigger over and over again, even when he lay backwards on the sand, his eyes staring into nothingness.

My arm and hand shook hard but I didn't even notice it. It wasn't until Lisbon came towards me and placed her hand on my arm that I looked up and realized I had killed him. "Jane," she said softly, "Patrick … it's over. He's dead."

The adrenaline rush was over in one second. I started to shiver as I threw the gun into the sand and stared at Lisbon. A very much bleeding, damaged, Lisbon. Who somehow, despite everything we'd been through, seemed happy. She was _free_!

"Are you okay?" I asked shivering, touching her face. "Teresa, are you hurt?"

She shook her head, completely ignoring Knowles' body lying close to us. We held each other close as we turned our gazes to the house. My burning house. We heard sirens. Perhaps they had been there for quite some time. It was the fire brigade, cops, paramedics. Both of us were so exhausted we couldn't even stand. But we had to.

As we stood, supporting each other, we saw it: Several people with flashlights were wandering over the deck of the house, going down the staircase leading to the beach, calling out our names.

"Lisbon!" we heard. "Jane!" And then over again, "Lisbon! Jane!"

"Oh my god," Lisbon whispered, "that sounds like – It's Cho."

"And Fischer," I said.

"Here –"Lisbon called out, her voice very hoarse. I knew she was about to pass out, her head wound leaving a constant trail of crimson red on her face. "We're here …"

Their flashlights roamed over the sand until they caught us in the light. I had never been so happy to see Cho in my life. The adrenaline kicked right back in, so high was I on the relief that we were saved.

"They're here!" he called out and Fischer turned towards the house, waving and shouting at more people to come. Within a minute, we were surrounded by at least a dozen people, all dressed in uniform or suits. Cho was the first one to approach us, looking at both of us with a worried frown.

"Lisbon," he said, reaching for Teresa, supporting her as she almost fell forward into his arms. "Don't move, you'll be fine. Lisbon. Lisbon!" I saw how he held her tight and then laid her down on the sand, realizing she had passed out in his arms.

I wavered on my shaking legs as I looked at Cho, who looked at my damaged body. I must have looked quite the sight, blood everywhere, pouring from two bullet holes and one ripped open surgical wound and a damaged, knocked up face. Yet I found myself grinning, so relieved was I that they had come.

Fischer, followed shortly by a troop of paramedics and cops, looked from Lisbon to me and back. "That must have been quite some holiday," she said.

"It sure was," I retorted. "Couldn't have been better."

While a number of men and women surrounded Lisbon, treating her with care as they prepared her for transport, I asked Fischer to stay with her. Then they left with Teresa hooked on an IV, an oxygen mask placed over her mouth and nose, her broken wrist wrapped in a temporary splint and a pad placed over the gash on her forehead.

At the same time, another group of the rescue party was hovering over me. I was gently probed and prodded and asked questions about what had happened. I told Cho briefly what Knowles had done to us while they pushed me down on a stretcher and strapped me tight after placing thick pads of bandages all over me. I kept on talking when they lifted me up, high on all the things I had to say. Cho listened and nodded.

He then told me the fire brigade had quickly secured the house. The guest room was burned out but the other rooms were saved, except for water damage.

As I was lifted on a gurney off the beach, I felt how I started to shiver again. The rush was gone. Suddenly I just couldn't stop shaking and I felt cold, freezing cold. Someone placed two blankets over me and someone else – a woman – grabbed my hand and told me that I could relax, that I would be taken care of.

I wanted to ask Cho about his side of the story, how he had gotten here, how they had found us, but found I was having difficulty forming the words. More shaking, more blankets and then someone said, "We're going to help you to breathe a bit better, Mr. Jane," and an oxygen mask was placed over my mouth and nose.

From there on, I drifted in and out of consciousness, waking up a day or so later, realizing as the fever dreams were replaced by real life realities, how damned lucky we had been.


	15. Chapter 15: Kimball Cho

**Chapter 2.8: Kimball Cho **

I recalled _the _phone call very vividly.

It was Abbott calling me, telling me something was off with Lisbon and Jane.

"How so?" I had asked, not fazed by the man's words. I knew Jane much better than Abbott and wasn't worried quickly. Jane had gone off the radar with Lisbon, being instructed to call us whenever something was off. Just a few hours before, Lisbon had called Abbott and I and told us about the broken collar bone. Of course she neglected to tell us about her TV-performance. We only found out about that much later.

That was the call Abbott made late that afternoon, sounding stressed and impatient. "Apparently Lisbon has made the local news late last night. I just saw the footage. She neglected to mention this little tidbit when she called me about Jane's accident. Anyhow, my phone has been ringing off the hook by the media. They all want to talk to her about her heroics but she won't answer her phone."

"She'll try to avoid the media; she hates it when they make a fuzz over something."

"That's what I thought too, so I called her myself. In fact I've tried to call her every half hour or so. The phone rings and then goes to voicemail."

"Battery down?"

"No, it definitely rings first, she just won't answer it. Neither does Jane but in his case I wouldn't be surprised his battery has turned low, you know how he is when it comes to that phone."

"Hmm," I had replied, realizing that this wasn't a normal situation. "When can I leave?"

"Thought you might say that," Abbott smiled. "I've contacted the local PD to go take a look. I've booked two tickets for Fischer and you. Can you drop what you're doing and drive to the airport right now? Fischer can meet you there. There is a flight in about an hour, I've asked them to hold until you get there. They're expecting you. It'll be two and a half hours before you get to L.A."

"Can you contact the local PD?"

"I don't want to stir when we don't know there is stirring to do. I'd prefer if you go take a look first. I'll continue to try and reach her. You should be in L.A. around 10 p.m., call me when you get there."

"Will do," I said, doing exactly what Abbott asked of me, dropping everything and driving in top speed to the Austin airport. Fischer arrived five minutes before I did and had picked up our tickets, waiting impatiently. The flight took off right on time.

We didn't say much during the trip. To be honest I wasn't too sure what we would find. Knowing Lisbon, she might just have been neglecting all calls. Who knows? They might have been out for dinner, forgetting their phones. Lisbon had explained briefly how relaxed they had been, none of them expecting danger. This trip might be a waste of our time. But Fischer kept on biting her lip while trying to pretend she was reading on her iPad while in reality wondering about all of this.

Once we arrived in L.A., I made top speed as we drove to Malibu. Fischer called Abbott who confirmed he hadn't heard from them yet. It was nearly midnight when we were nearly there, surprised when several fire brigade vehicles passed us. Fischer and I looked at each other, both of us sensing this had something to do with Jane. So we followed them, arriving at the Malibu mansion. There was a fire on the first floor and the firemen had busted the front door, entering with their gear, calling out and hearing nothing. There was no one in the house.

As we entered, Fischer and I took over the lead, allowing the firemen to take care of the burning guest room upstairs, while we spoke with the now-present cops. We found the two cell phones on the kitchen counter, we saw traces of struggles, we found blood trails, shattered Thai food boxed and an open backdoor leading to the deck.

All of my instincts shouted that we had to head there. When we did, we heard gun shots. Fischer and I rushed down the stairs first, guns pulled out, heading into the direction of the sounds. There we found them. Dennis James Knowles lay dead on the sand; he was no longer a threat to anyone.

I was shocked to see Lisbon and Jane like that, both physically so damaged it was nearly a miracle they had taken out this murderer together. It was only when we approached closer that we saw the telltale signs of pure adrenaline on their faces and in their bodies. They had been through hell and back, that was for sure.

Lisbon passed out in my arms but the paramedics said she would be just fine. Jane kept on talking and talking, as if he had to pour out all he had to say in one big breath. He was so high on the rush it took a lot of people a lot of effort to calm him down. When he did, he passed out.

Fischer went with Lisbon and I went with Jane, leaving the mess to the local cops. I called Abbott inside the ambulance, my eyes not leaving Jane for one second. At the ER they rushed both of them into small cubicles and Fischer and I were kicked out, leaving us nothing to do but make calls and drink dozens of cups of coffee.

Later they came to tell us that both would be fine. Lisbon had broken her wrist which had been treated, the gash on her forehead had been stitched; she suffered from a concussion and would have to take it easy for the next few weeks. She was resting comfortably, only to be woken up on a regular basis to make sure she wouldn't slip into a coma.

Jane had been taken into surgery. The damage to his shoulder was severe and would take a long time to heal. The plates that kept his collar bone together had been shifted, all the stitches that kept the previous wound together had been torn and they were afraid of an infection. The bullet wound actually caused lesser concern, as it had gone through without damaging any organs. It was – as the doctor said – almost the best place to get shot. He did suffer from the loss of blood and was given extra blood to replace that. They would keep him sedated for a day after the surgery to allow his body to heal.

Fischer and I checked into a hotel as the doctors said staying wouldn't be of use, we weren't allowed to see them yet anyhow. In the morning we returned and found Lisbon awake. As she rested in her darkened room, she told Kim and I everything. Again we realized how lucky they had been.

Jane didn't wake up for another day. When he did, he insisted on seeing Teresa and kept pleading with the doctors to be allowed to do so. Finally, many hours later, they agreed he could see her for a short while and so they helped him into a wheelchair and brought him to her room. Fischer and I watched from behind the glass window of her room as they spoke. Fischer watched fascinated as they grasped each other's hand and smiled and talked for a long time.

"Are you sure they're not a couple?" she asked me reluctantly as we watched.

"Yeah," I said. "They just have this bond - you know? I can't explain it, it's just there."

She nodded slowly. "I think I'm starting to understand it."

A day later, Jane and Lisbon were transferred to rooms next to each other. The hospital could have spared one room, as they were constantly with each other. It made me smile when no one saw.

The only thing that rested now for Jane was the final closure.


	16. Chapter 16: Patrick Jane

Thank you very much for the many nice comments and the many reviews on this story. Due to personal circumstances (illness) i wasn't able to react to everyone this time around, but do know that I appreciate the comments very, very, very much.

Hope you like this ending, I'll be back some times soon with a new story ;).

**Chapter 2.9: Epilogue**

I know I should have, but I couldn't. I just couldn't put my house up for sale anymore. I called the three real estate agents from the hospital and called off the deals. They understood, I guess.

After that, I told Teresa.

She sat up, leaning relaxed in the pillows supporting her back and smiled. "After all we've been through, after Red John and Knowles, you want to keep it?" She didn't sound upset, she sounded as if she had always known I wouldn't be able to do it in the end.

"I know I'm crazy, Lisbon," I said, "but somehow I can see myself making it work. I could fly over here for weekends, or holidays, or whatever. I can see myself cleaning up this place, making it a home again. New furniture, new stuff, electricity …" – she laughed at that – "you know? Am I crazy?" I eyed her uncertainly.

"No, Jane," she replied. "You are not crazy. You are doing the right thing. Yes, despite all that has happened there. This is your home. It always will be your home, no matter where you are or what you do."

And that was that. I kept the house, making plans inside my head to clean it up, making it a home again, making myself loving this place that Angela and Charlotte had occupied with so much love. Because that's what there was here: Love.

We were released from hospital together. To our surprise, as we were ready to leave, Abbott walked into my room where I had sat Lisbon down on a chair while waiting. Our boss looked at us firmly first, then he smiled and hugged Lisbon. He then turned and looked at me, obviously debating what he would do as a greeting. Finally he reached out his hand and I shook it firmly. He patted me briefly on my left shoulder and scraped his throat. "Good to have you both okay and in one piece – well, sort of – I thought I should come and tell you in person that you have been assigned two weeks of sick leave and you're not expected back in Austin sooner. Can I offer you both a ride?"

Lisbon and I looked at each other. "Yeah," we both replied. "Malibu."

"I thought you would say that," Fischer smiled. "Come on."

He picked up both of our bags and took them to his rental car, driving us back to the house where, to our surprise, Fischer and Cho stood waiting. Cho opened the door with a mysterious grin and as soon as I entered, I noticed several things. The house had been cleaned from top to bottom, there was electricity, the kitchen utilities had been replaced and all the windows stood open, allowing fresh wind to enter the house. Upstairs, the guest room had been cleaned up and redecorated as if nothing had ever happened. Outside, the exploded guest house was gone and had been replaced with a new building. We had been in hospital for almost a week. How in the world had they pulled this off?

In shock I stared at my colleagues, who – all four of them, because it was obvious Lisbon had known about this little makeover – stood smiling at me. "It took a lot of strings and effort to pull this off," Abbott said, "but you earned it, Jane. Enjoy."

For once, I was lost for words. Well, for a few moments anyhow.

And then I took them out for the best sea food they would ever taste.

The End


End file.
